The 173rd Games: Long Forgotten Whispers
by Jayfish
Summary: Blood on their lips and stars in their eyes, 23 tributes will find themselves gasping for air, clawing at the ground, bleeding into nothing. The spirits of the ones before them will play with them, their forgotten voices whispering on the wind. One will win, but can you even call it winning? *CLOSED, reapings have started!*
1. Prologue: From Presidents to Avoxes

**Hey, guys! I'm very excited to begin this little adventure with all of you! I'm sure some people are confused (submitting tributes? But... WHERE'S THE FORM?) I actually PMed a bazillion people about this, so that's where the tributes came from. Although, since SYOTs are illegal now... I tootaaally made them up myself. Riiiiiggghhhttt...**

**Anyway, thanks again for submitting tributes; I really appreciate it and I love them all to pieces! I am really not looking forward to the bloodbath... But no worries, I've got plenty of chapters planned before that happens! Below I have some important info for you guys, so have fun with that. Once again, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!**

* * *

**Korbin Ehnt, 22**

**Capitol**

I wish I could talk. Honestly, there are many things I wish for, but the thing I'd like the most is my voice back, thank you very much. I know that it's never going to happen (stupid to even consider it) but I guess I can't help myself. Sometimes I find swallowing difficult because my tongue is no longer there to help force the food down my throat. Once I had to use my finger in place of the missing tongue, and it made me sad in a way I don't fully understand.

They say that I _deserve _to be an Avox. I don't really think so, but I keep my head down and I don't disagree. That would be stupid, and I'm not stupid—just meek. Then again, being meek is pretty much the same thing as being stupid here in the Capitol. I get screwed over all the time, and I am compliant because I'm afraid and I _can't _say no.

I don't know what I did wrong. I was eighteen, nineteen, it doesn't matter. And there was a girl. I remember the girl because she was beautiful and nice and funny. I really liked that girl.

And then she said she had a _secret_, and she told me and it had to do with our President and the Districts and running away from Panem forever, just the two of us. I wasn't sure if that was okay or not, but I did know that the girl would take care of me, no matter what, so I said yes and she went away.

When I saw her again, she was hanging from a tree in front of the President's mansion, and I was being hustled down, down, down, into the facility where they sliced out my tongue and listened to me scream.

Cold fingers on my shoulder force me back into the present. I stiffen to attention as Amygdala sashays around me before coming to a stop in front of me, so close that her Gamemaker robes swish around my ankles. "Korbin," she asks, and her voice is soft and beautiful, kind of like silk. "What are you waiting around here for? I asked you for coffee over two hours ago."

She sounds accusatory, but Amygdala would never punish me. I have heard her order terrible things on other people, mutilation and death, but she has never raised a finger against _me, _her personal Avox. Even now, one of her eyebrows is raised and she is nodding. "Another flashback, Korbin? You seem to have an _obsession _with that tongue of yours."

I wish I could tell her that it isn't an obsession so much as wishful thinking, but I can't. Amygdala probably knows, anyway. She understands things about people, things you thought were a secret until she mutters them under her breath and you realize that you can't keep any secrets from her. Amygdala Ligus, Head Gamemaker, is the most intuitive woman I have ever met.

"You might as well tag along," Amygdala says, waving me forward. "Come on. We'll go to my office and you can stand in the corner and be quiet. Does that sound like fun?" She doesn't wait for my assenting nod; instead, she turns so quickly that her robes snap around her ankles. I don't really have a choice (besides, Amygdala is good to me) so I hurry after her, slowing down so I don't step on the silver cloth dancing around her heels. Amygdala has dark, rich skin that clashes horribly with the silver robes, and short black hair that comes to her shoulders. She is one of the few Capitol people who doesn't have many enhancements and tattoos: as a general rule, Gamemakers don't do things like that. Neither does President Tam, come to think of it.

Of course, Amygdala does have _one _addition. Her tongue, it… I think she had this before I met her, but it makes me sad, I guess. It makes me wish I still had my tongue. _Her _tongue is so long—I think she can extend it out of her mouth about a foot. And she can _pick things up _with it. She tried to write with it once, but I know that was just to show me what I've been missing.

We arrive in her office and she immediately sits down at her desk. "Close the door," she orders, and I do, slipping into my designated corner. Amygdala put a swivel chair in that corner, and I sit down gingerly. Technically Avoxes are supposed to stand in the presence of their betters, but Amygdala has never been one to actually follow the rules. As her Avox, I suppose she'd rather I didn't follow the rules either.

She sits at her black desk and kicks at her own swivel chair, biting her full bottom lip as she snags a bunch of papers and begins to read. Amygdala's office is very sparse. The walls are a baby blue, which is a completely misleading color because it is so calming. I saw Amygdala shove a cactus down a man's throat in this office. He kept on thrashing because needles were poking out of his throat and he couldn't even scream.

I think she did it for fun, too.

I sit and I watch her working, and despite the memories of the man with the cactus and the multiple people she's done in (whether under the President's orders or not, I don't know) I am not afraid. Amygdala would never hurt me. I am her Avox, her devoted servant. I trust her implicitly, and she knows that and she will not take advantage of it.

Only I still wish, even though I know it cannot happen, that I had my tongue so I could tell her these things myself.

**Amygdala Ligus, 24**

**Capitol**

This year's arena is going to be amazing.

I said that last year too, and the year before that, and the year before that. The year before _that_, I was still working as our previous Head Gamemaker's assistant. How _unfortunate _that Julius was murdered so _brutally _by that mysterious hooded assailant.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I did that, and believe you me, it was fucking _awesome. _I mean, he didn't put up a fight or anything. He just looked at me. It was almost as fun as that time I shoved a cactus down some civilian's throat for no reason.

Good times, good times. I'm not supposed to be reminiscing right now, though. In all actuality, I'm supposed to be calling the head of the muttation department and asking him what the hell he's doing to the mutts. He sent me a profile for a shark mutt that I happen to know we used two years ago. That kind of repetition is the perfect way to bore the Capitol, to get me fired, and to guarantee that the Games this year are less than perfect.

I may be completely insane, but I'll be damned if I allow my Games to be anything less than 100 percent incredible.

"Korbin," I say, raising my voice because he's probably daydreaming again. "Call Roma, alright?" I can see Korbin getting out of the chair I bought him, taking his sweet time walking to my desk, and finally picking up my cell. He takes forever doing pretty much everything I ask him, but I put up with him because… I really don't know what I put up with Korbin for. I've had him since I was 20, and he's always been like this. If he were anyone else he'd be dead, but he's Korbin and I like him. I don't know why. Am I supposed to like my personal servant? Pretty sure that's a gigantic _no. _But Korbin is so… Well, he's so helpless and lost. He's like a sheep.

I guess that makes me the wolf in charge of his flock. And I'm serious, if anyone fucks with my sheep, they can be sure that I'll be killing their families within the hour.

Korbin shoves the phone in front of my face. Giving him a look, my tongue slips from between my teeth and coils around the phone. I like my tongue. I don't know anyone else who has an enhancement like mine. It makes for a great surprise at parties.

Korbin lets go hastily, returning to his seat. My tongue extends backwards and I press the phone to my ear. "Miss Ligus? Hello?" Roma is asking, no doubt wondering whether or not I'm going to throw him in a tank filled with his stupid shark mutts.

Luckily for him, that isn't my plan. I'm not even going to kill him or set him on fire or anything like that. No, I'm only going to yell at him.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL, ROMA? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY ARE THESE MUTTS EXACTLY LIKE THE ONES FROM TWO YEARS AGO?"

"Miss Ligus, I…"

"SHUT UP, BITCH, I'M NOT DONE YET! JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE WATER DOESN'T MEAN WE HAVE TO HAVE SHARKS! HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF CREATIVITY, ROMA? _DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS?" _There is frightened breathing on the other end of the phone.

I pull myself together. "I expect _new _mutts by _tonight, _Roma, or I'm going to throw you into the arena as a mutt instead. Believe me; with that retarded mane you got, you look like one." I hang up before he starts crying.

Korbin is looking at the wall, acting like he didn't hear anything. _Clever boy. _He's probably the only person I have any respect for right now, my Avox servant. That's kind of sad, if you think about it.

**President Cadecus Tam, 27**

**Capitol**

I am not the kind of person to fall to pieces over one little thing. If the President of Panem were that kind of person, our country would be screwed. We'd be done. Finished. Zip.

Unfortunately for me, the Hunter is no longer a little problem. I sift through the pictures on my desk, and I clench the photographs violently as rage travels up and down my spine. _That insolent bastard…! _

The family is dead. A man, woman, and two children, and they are all dead. The Hunter was merciful with the children, at least; all he did was slit their innocent throats. The wife has three bullet wounds in mostly non-vital areas, suggesting that she was left to bleed to death.

It is what the Hunter did to my Gamemaker that pisses me off. Tulian's abdomen has been slit open, and his limbs are splayed as though in his final moments he was writhing in agony. Written on the wall of the living room, in the bright red blood of my Gamemaker, is a little message directly from the Hunter to me.

_Every year, I get angrier._

_ Watch yourself, Tam._

_The Hunter_

Who does he think he is? We have surveillance footage; Tulian had cameras installed in his house, for security that ended up completely failing him. Like always, I've seen the blazing white hood of my ultimate enemy, the hood that never falls to reveal a face. If I could only see his face _once,_ I could find him.

He's made it pretty clear what he's objecting to. The Hunter never assassinates anyone who doesn't have something to do with the Hunger Games. I'm going to have to increase security on the Training Center and on the building that houses my Gamemaker's offices. I can't make a big fuss about this yet, because if civilians found out about a serial killer roaming around the Capitol, there'd be chaos. No, it's best to act as though absolutely nothing is wrong, and hopefully the massive Peacekeeper force I have roaming the streets will be enough to find this son of a bitch.

I groan, relaxing against the padded cushion of my chair. I love my job, love every minute of it, but things like this are what makes it a little less than perfect. Luckily, there's always someone to call when things are going rough. Who says the President of Panem can't have friends?

Amygdala picks up on the third ring. "What the hell do you want, Sir?" she yawns, sounding bored.

"Talk to me," I command her. "Tell me about your day."

"Hm," she says, pondering. "I didn't kill anybody today, so I guess not that much went down."

I press a finger to my temple. Sometimes, talking to Amygdala can be less relaxing than just sitting in my office and staring out the window. "We've been over this, Amygdala," I remind her, through gritted teeth. "I _ignore _the fact that you have… em… interesting tendencies. It's hard to do that when you spout it like an idiot."

"Sorry." She doesn't even sound sorry. "Well, I yelled at Roma today. That's something."

"Really? Whatever for?"

She snorts. "He sent me mutts that were copies of ones we used a couple of years ago, the moron."

"I suppose you really cut into him."

"His ears were probably bleeding by the time I was done." We both laugh, although Amygdala is probably more amused by the image of Roma's bleeding ears than by what she's just said.

"Well, miracle of miracles, you've distracted me for thirty seconds," I tell her. "Now it's back to work."

"Later," she says, and I hang up. I suppose it is extremely unprofessional of me to be friends with one of my subordinates, but Amygdala has known me since I began my ascent to the top. I may do a lot of things, but I don't desert my friends.

Nor do I desert my enemies. I glare down at the grisly photographs before me and I clench my teeth. _Wherever you are, _I vow, _whoever you are, Hunter, you'd better run._

_ When I get to you, you're going to wish you'd never been born._

* * *

**Well _hey _there, guys! I hope you enjoyed the prologue! Tam, Korbin and Amygdala are going to be playing a bigger role in this story than you might think... So I hope you find them interesting!**

**Anyway, you're probably here for this "important information" business. After some deliberation, I decided to do a sponsor system. Am I putting the list on this page? Hell nah. I actually don't have a list, you can ask for whatever the crap you want, as long as I think you can afford it. So, how do you get money, hmm...? Answering one of my questions will get you $5 (and yes, I'm using dollars because I'm an American and I'm cool like that *poses*). Reviewing will get you $5, and I mean legitimate reviews. Just putting the answer to my question doesn't count, loves. Sometimes I'll have a Special Challenge, which will give you $25. Occasionally I'll have a Super Special Challenge, giving you $50! Note that only one person can win the Super Special Challenge, though. Because I am a fan whore, writing fanfiction or making fan art for this will get you $25. That's all I can think of, so... yeeaahhh. **

**Please note that anyone can sponsor, even if they didn't submit a tribute. If you did submit, you do not have to sponsor your own tribute. You may also collaborate with others in order to achieve enough cold hard cash to afford an item. Things won't be cheap, guys, especially since prices increase the longer you stay in the Games...**

** If you're confused about this, just PM me and we'll chat. I like the chattings.**

**JAYFISHY QUESTION TIME~**

**#001: Judging from Amygdala's hint about water monsters, what do you think the arena is going to look like?**

**#002: If you were a Gamemaker, what would your favorite aspect of the job be?**


	2. The Reapings: Districts One and Two

**Hey guys, welcome to the second chapter of this SYOT! Reading your reviews made me smile, and reading your guesses for the arena and favorite parts of being a Gamemaker made me giggle. It was also pointed out to me that I never gave a decent explanation of how the Hunger Games are still going on. I was planning to insert that into the story, but it might not come up for a while. Sorry! Anyway, I hope you like the somewhat rapid update. I really want to update quickly so we can get to the end of the reapings before summer ends. We'll see how long I can keep this up!**

* * *

**Tyrone Clee, 18**

**District One**

My father dances in front of me, sweat trickling down his forehead. In his hand is a tiny silver bell, a bell which he rings now. The merry little tinkle reminds me that I only have five more minutes to take the bell from my father before my time is up. He's made one thing very clear to me: if I don't manage to get the bell from him in fifteen minutes, then I don't get to go to the Hunger Games. For the love of Panem, _this is my last freaking chance._

I'm not going to let my dad win this little competition. We are standing barefoot in the grass behind our large house, and my father keeps on backing up towards the back door and then feinting. I've slammed into the wall twice already, and my nose is not amused.

"Come on, Tyrone," my dad says, grinning evilly as he rings the bell again. "Four minutes. Are you giving up already?"

I grin back. Like father, like son. "Hell no, Pops. You just wait. I'll get the bell."

"_Sure _you will," he says, and lunges at me. My father won the 155th Hunger Games with a mixture of intense martial arts and stealth, so I really don't stand a chance up close to him. He hasn't provided me with any weapons, saying that there is a possibility I will be weaponless at some point in the arena. I don't think so (does he really think I'm going to let other people take my stuff during the bloodbath?) but my dad makes the rules and I'm technically not allowed to complain.

This time, I am the one who feints. My dad catches himself and manages to prevent a fall that would have really done a number on his chin. He turns around to find me and discovers that I am nowhere in sight. I have slipped behind one of the few large trees in our backyard, and I wait. _Come on, _I think. _Come on…_

"Tyrone? Where are you?" My dad rings the bell. "Two minutes, son! I guess you _are _giving up!" He notices the tree and begins walking towards it casually. "The whole point of this game is to _fight _me, not to hide…"

He steps into range, and I hug the tree.

Well, I'm not really hugging the tree. Both of my arms are extended around it, and I grab my dad's shoulders and jerk backwards. He gives a yelp as his face is slammed into the trunk. Dazed, he staggers back, and by that time I've snatched the arm with the bell. He tries to shut his fingers over my prize, but I snatch it away.

I stare for a moment at my trophy, my tanned cheeks flushed bright red. A smirk grows on my face. "Well, well," I say, sauntering over to where my dad sits in the grass. "Looks like Victors aren't as tough as everybody makes them out to be."

Dad grins. "Shut up," he says lovingly, getting to his feet and clapping my shoulder. "You did good, Tyrone. You have my blessing." He doesn't say it, but I know what he means. _The Hunger Games, _I think, and my blood thrums in anticipation. _This really is my year._

Careers are supposed to clear it with the heads of our training center before volunteering, which I've already done. I am the chosen tribute for this year. If Dad had said I _couldn't _go, and he'd actually managed to prevent me from volunteering, the kid who'd gotten reaped might've had to go in. Somebody else might have volunteered in my place, though. It doesn't really matter now, because Dad is on my side. I've won his game, I got the bell, and I'm going to volunteer.

The two of us march back into the house, pushing and shoving at each other like normal. Mom is sitting on the couch, and she jumps to her feet when she sees the two of us. "Showers, right now!" she exclaims. "You are _not _getting sweat on my couch, or the rug!"

We don't even argue with her. My dad may have been a Victor, and I'm a volunteer, but when Mom tells us to do something, we _do _it.

My blonde hair has plastered to my head as I return from my shower, save the one piece that always manages to find its way directly in front of my right eye. I don't even try to move it; it's just going to sneak back there later when I'm not paying attention to it.

My mother and my father are talking on the couch when I enter the room. When my mother sees me she smiles, but it is strained. "Tyrone!" she exclaims. "You're volunteering?"

Mom was really only training me in my early days, before I hit 16. I don't think she _forgot _about my goal, exactly, but she hasn't been keeping tabs on my training. I was actually surprised Dad wanted to train with me today; he decided I could go solo at 16 as well. I suppose he wasn't really training with me today anyway, he was testing me. And I definitely passed his little test.

"Yeah," I tell her, plopping down on the couch. "It's gonna be great. You'll see me on TV and we'll get _another _house here when we win. We can use it for storage." I grin cheekily; my mom loves storage space. She has an obsession with closets; nearly half the crap in this house can be found in any of the closets lining the halls.

Her expression becomes positively greedy. "More space would be awfully nice…"

I've got her hooked.

She glances at the clock, and her face turns nervous. "Um, Tyrone? If you want to get there on time, you should leave… five minutes ago." My smile evaporates like water.

"_Shit."_

"Tyrone!"

"Sorry!" I yelp, getting to my feet and bolting. If I don't make it on time, that'll be it: someone will volunteer for me, and I'll never get to go. I've been waiting for this for six years; I'm not about to let some snot-nosed brat beat me to the finish…

* * *

Luckily for me, I arrive before any snot-nosed brats get the chance.

The girl's already been reaped (more likely, volunteered.) She stands on the stage stiffly, platinum blonde hair tied up in a looping ponytail. I don't remember which girl was going to volunteer this year, so I don't know her name. Never mind, I'll figure it out in a minute.

Our district's escort is a slip of a thing named Flabella Circa. Always dressed in neon hues, she wears massive heels to make herself taller and still only comes midway up my chest. The microphone has to be specially lowered so she can actually reach it, and I bet she's straining anyway.

"Okay!" Flabella exclaims, tottering towards the male reaping ball. Her little hand plunges in and she yanks out about ten slips. "Oops!" she exclaims, letting them slip through her fingers. It's a bit stupid to be doing this when we all know someone is only going to be volunteering anyway, but Flabella is the kind of person who would die if you criticized her. If District One killed Flabella we'd no doubt be in trouble with the Capitol, so we have to keep our sarcastic and biting remarks to ourselves when she's around.

Flabella finally manages to open the slip of paper. "Do we have a Shimmer Duke in the audience?"

"Forget Shimmer!" I call, my heart racing wildly in my chest. "I'll be your tribute this year, I think."

Flabella gasps. "Ooh! Are you volunteering?"

I saunter forward jauntily. "That'd be a yes, Bella." She giggles like a schoolgirl at the nickname, and when I mount the stage she beams at me.

"Shake hands, tributes!" she says. I turn to the blonde girl and extend my hand. She takes it and shakes. Her handshake is as firm as her blue, unyielding eyes. _This girl isn't playing around, _I think, and harden my resolve. _No need to worry, I can handle her._

And if I can handle her, my own district partner… well, who'll there be to stop me?

* * *

The District One Justice Building provides the rooms where we say our "final" goodbyes to family and friends. They also supply a very interesting fish tank in each room, swimming in which are several sets of brightly colored guppies and minnows. I watch them dart in and out of the seaweed probably imported from District Four. When I poke at the glass, they freak out and go scattering all over the place. I amuse myself with this for several minutes, my nose pressed right up against the glass as I flick at the fish.

The knock on the door pulls me away from my finned friends. I stand up as my mother and father enter the room, identical smiles on their faces. Dad immediately slings an arm over my shoulder and ruffles my hair violently. "You did great, champ," he exclaims.

"He's right," Mom says. "The crowd is going to love you." Her eyes turn misty and she turns away, pulling a handkerchief from her purse. "To think that my little boy is growing up…" she says, her voice cracking near the end.

We can't have this. I open my arms and grab her in a bear hug, making her shriek with laughter. "C'mon, Mom," I say. "Don't you worry about me for a second. I'll be fine; I bet you they won't have anyone trained half as well as me."

"I don't know," Mom says, but she's smiling. "Were we good trainers?"

I nod. "The _best_."

Dad laughs too. "No worrying, Erin. Look at the kid! He'll be as good as in my Games, maybe even better!" He clears his throat. "We're really proud of you, son. No matter what happens in the arena, we'll be proud of you."

I grin. "I'm glad," I say. "Especially since I'm going to be winning for you guys." My mother gives a little 'awww,' and my dad jams his thumbs into his pockets, looking a bit bashful because of the sappiness.

"Hey!" There is banging on the door. "Kid's got other visitors, move along, people!"

Mom glares at the door. "Well," she says. "It's time to go. Your father and I are going to kick his ass for interrupting us." She gives me a kiss on the cheek. "Be safe, sweetheart."

With a clap on my shoulder and another hair-ruffle, my dad turns to go as well, leaving me alone to face my next guest. She comes running in almost before my parents are out the door. With a massive, sunshine grin, she throws her arms around my neck. "Oh, baby," Freya sighs, cuddling into my chest. "You did it!" She pulls away only to lean in and kiss me hard on the mouth. When she breaks the kiss, her electric eyes are soft and husky, glowing with the aftershock of tongue-on-tongue action.

I love this wiry little girl with the sunburned nose and the bright red hair. The way she jitters around makes it look as though her head is on fire; the first time we met, I was on a balcony and I saw her running around waving her hands. My response was to dump a bucket of water on her head. Despite the month of revenges on both sides that followed, Freya and I became close (eventually.) We began dating when we were both 17, and I've enjoyed every minute of it.

I plant a soft kiss on her lips. "You know I'm going to be fighting to come back to you," I say as we separate. "I belong with you, Freya. I won't let anybody else get in the way."

She smiles. "I know _that_, dummy," she says, giving me a playful smack to the crown. "I'm not worried."

"Good, because you don't have to be. You're going to be dating a Victor soon!"

"I can't wait for the final eight interviews," she responds. "I'm going to have so much fun telling them how we met."

I groan. "That's going to make me look like an asshole."

"An adorable, very stupid little asshole," she says, flicking me on the nose. "More importantly, _my _little asshole." She makes a grumpy face. "Don't want those Capitol women getting grabby."

That one really makes me laugh. "No worries," I tell her. "If they try to touch me I'll tell them I have Districtitis."

"Districtitis?"

"STD. It turns rich Capitol people into thin, grimy shells of their former selves. No woman will want to touch me after that."

She laughs and hugs me around the waist. "I love you, Tyrone," she says. "A lot."

"I love _you_, Freya," I say, wrapping my arms around her. "A lot."

Several goodbye kisses and shouts from the Peacekeepers later, Freya is gone and I am receiving a host of other visitors. Most of them are guys I trained with. We talk, mock wrestle, joke, but I've already moved on. In my mind, I'm already in the Capitol, preparing for the most dangerous few weeks of my life.

I'm not even scared.

**Vanity Sheffield, 18**

**District One**

Despite the fact that this box-like room has been my place of residence for the past nine years, I forget myself and try to stretch out. Almost instantly, my foot strikes the wall and the force of it drives my head into the rusted metal backboard of my bed. Cursing like a fiend, I sit up and rub the spot gingerly until the pain subsides into a dull tingle.

The naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling by a dodgy-looking cord throws a sickly light about the room. I suppose that I can't even describe it as a room—a closet would be a better term for it. The only thing in here is my bed, and there isn't really enough room for that. District One may be the Capitol's favorite, but they still don't give the orphans any more than a few square feet of space.

Not that I'm an orphan, of course.

"Damn it," I mutter, curling up against the wall. I don't know why I thought that. It probably has to do with the stress of today, and all. My nails have been bitten into strange shapes, and my lips are chapped from constant light panting.

Thinking about the reapings is much better than thinking about _them… _the family that still wonders where I am, I'm sure. _No, focus on the reapings. _

I don't really know how today is going to turn out. I by all rights should be the female tribute for District One, but then there's Aphrodite, the annoying little whelp who's _almost _as good as me. Somehow, the head of District One's training center doesn't see the "almost," and she still hasn't reached a decision regarding the chosen volunteer.

I am startled by the knock on my door. When I dragged myself into the center after a really crappy night of avoiding drunken idiots and muggers, they issued me one set of clothing, a sort of all-purpose deal, so I'm decent enough to get off the bed and swing open the door.

"Are you ready to fight?" My trainer's words make me raise an eyebrow.

"Yes," I say warily, already somewhat suspicious as to where this is going.

"Come on, then," Agate says. He looks as though he might grab my shoulder and pull me, but then he turns away: Agate knows me well enough to realize I would _not _appreciate the dragging. He hurries down the corridor, and I follow him, more out of curiosity than the need to do what he says.

I know Agate is aware that I want to know what's going on. "They figured out a way to determine who volunteers this year," he says, in response to my unspoken question. "Guess what it involves? That's right; it involves you beating the living shit out of Aphrodite."

This sounds like something I can handle. Aphrodite is an arrogant little brat, and she insults me at every given opportunity. While I don't normally hold grudges, Aphrodite is different. It is pretty much agreed that we both hate each other's guts, and today we're finally, _finally _going to see which one of us is better…

Agate and I step into the main gymnasium, which is already filled with all of the other orphans and runaways turned fighters. It is a bit unusual to see everyone out here in the morning; we are members of the night school, as it were. If you don't have a parent or a guardian, they shove you in a little box of a room and take you out every night to train the crap out of you. I have scars pretty much everywhere from the kind of training that probably should be illegal. They've drowned us, beaten us, burnt us, starved us, and made us winners. I don't think there's a single person here who couldn't win the Hunger Games.

You don't _have _to be a part of this little club, if you're an orphan. I know plenty of orphans just go to the regular District One orphanage, and that's it. This night school of pain is for kids who really want it. I know I do.

When I enter the room, there is a roar and thunderous applause. The trainers and trainees have become so used to violence that they've grown to enjoy watching it. I know the feeling; the idea that soon I'll be fighting sends a wave of heat and tingling through my body. Fighting is by far the easiest way of solving a problem. Winner takes all, and loser keeps his face in the dirt unless he wants to get kicked in the teeth. It is an elegant solution to practically every problem known to man.

A chant of "Va-ni-ty!" has started, currently rivaled by the screams of "A-phro-di-te!" Bodies are pressing in on me and Agate, but we just keep moving forward until we reach the center ring, which is roped off. I jump over the ropes and see that a bored-looking Aphrodite is already there. She grins when she sees me.

"Took you long enough, Vanity. Scared?" I don't bother answering her, and she gives the onlookers a smug grin, as though she's caught me. I roll my eyes. _Wait until we fight, Aphrodite. We'll see who'll be smiling then._

Crystal Grayia, the Training Center's head, is leaning over the ropes with an interested grin on her face. "Come here, girls," she says, and the shouting is instantly quieted. Every single one of us at the night school learned on the first night that fucking around near Crystal is a _very _bad idea. I still remember it; she invited us all to fight her, and to try and beat her. She gave me a broken nose and a shattered wrist, and I didn't even have close to the worst injury. I've seen her beat kids into a bloody pulp before, and their misdemeanors are generally trivial things. No, we don't mess with Crystal.

Aphrodite and I approach Crystal, and she grins. "The rules are simple," she says. "The first one to beat the other into unconsciousness wins."

"Weapons?" Aphrodite asks.

"None," Crystal replies. "I suggest the two of you get to the center and begin. The reapings start in one hour." The two of us move to the center, and I clench my fists. _This is it, Aphrodite. Ready or not, here I come…_

"On my mark," says Crystal. "Three." Aphrodite's chocolate eyes have begun to burn. She smirks at me, baring her teeth. "Two." _I can win this. _"One. Begin."

Aphrodite doesn't move as I come barreling towards her. A few seconds before I reach her, I launch into the air. It seems she wasn't expecting this, because she stumbles back a few paces. My fist crashes into her stomach, and she crumples, but somehow manages to twist in midair, landing squarely on my back. I squirm, and she chuckles under her breath as she grabs my forehead and slams my face into the ground. We have mats, but they're probably just as hard as asphalt. With the blow comes a sense of dizziness, and of _rage. _Who the fuck does she think she is?

She raises my head for another blow and I clamp my teeth into her hand. She gives a girlish shriek and tries to pull away. I can taste her blood in my mouth, but I don't let go. Aphrodite raises her foot to kick me off, and I reach out and grab it. With another shriek, she falls over. I realize with sickening clarity that a scrap of her flesh is still clamped between my teeth. Spitting it out, I get to my feet. Aphrodite is scrambling to her feet as well, nursing her hand and glaring at me. "Fuck you, you little shit," she hisses.

"Shut the fuck up, Aphrodite," I snap. "Just fight me, quit being a little pussy and let's _go _already!" I realize vaguely that the crowd applauds my words, but I'm not listening to them. _This is between her and me._

Aphrodite stumbles forward, holding her hands out challengingly. I wait as she moves forward a few more paces, and then fall to the ground and shoot straight towards her feet. I've spent a lot of time observing Aphrodite fight, and I know that she _never _uses her feet as a weapon, at least not when she's startled. Sure enough, she reaches down to try and grab me and ends up crashing to the mats next to me. Before she can get up, I throw myself over her head. Her face is now jammed up against my stomach. I can feel her trying to bite, but I ignore it. Quickly, I reach out and turn her onto her stomach, with her head still trapped beneath me. When she's mostly unmoving, I slide my body over hers, pinning her completely to the ground. She snaps her head back in an attempt to hit me, but I dodge easily. _You're mine now. _With one hand, I pin her head against the mat. Her free hand grabs my hair and yanks it, but I can ignore the pain. _I've almost won… _I tilt my head back and slam into the back of Aphrodite's head, once. Stars explode in my vision as I pull away. Aphrodite is totally still. I reach out for her neck and turn her head, and I see that her eyes are still open and are darting everywhere. When I punch her in the center of the forehead, they slip shut and stay closed.

I stagger to my feet and let the screaming of the crowd wash over me. My head aches and it feels as though my shoulder got a little banged up, but I did it. _I won. _Dimly, over the crowd's whistles and cheers, I can see Crystal nodding. "Well done, tribute," she says.

_I'm going in._

* * *

I arrive at the reapings with an entourage. Most of the night school kids want to see me off: even if they didn't know me and weren't my friend (most of them) they want to be able to stare at living proof that even the scum of the district can make it somewhere. Crystal doesn't often pick night school kids as volunteers, mainly because the Capitol isn't a fan of dirty urchins. But we're just so much _stronger _than regular district kids, simply because of the crap they put us through.

Our district's escort is named Flabella Circa, and she takes forever doing everything. I resist the urge to tell her to hurry up, especially since she's all the way across the square, clacking around onstage. I think she's making some sort of boring speech; I can see her lips moving, but all I can hear is the _clack-clack-clack _of her ridiculous heels. I shake my head. _That's so stupid. How does she move in those? _I never wear anything I can't move around in. Fashion is nice and all, but for anyone who wants to get anywhere, it's a waste of time.

"Alright, ladies!" Flabella squeals, clapping her tiny hands together excitedly. "In my hand, I hold the potential Victor of the 173rd Hunger Games! Unless, of course, there are volunteers." _There are. Wait—when did she pull out that paper? _I really haven't been paying attention…

Flabella unfolds the slip of paper and squints at it. "Will Diamond Rusqale please step forward? Diamond Rusqale?"

I shoulder my way forward. "I volunteer!" I shout, and the short-haired girl from the thirteen year old section slips back among her peers.

Flabella jumps up and down as I step onto the stage. "Ooh, hi! What's your name?"

"I'm Vanity Sheffield," I say, making sure to give the cameras a good look. Yeah, I'm not much to look at, but they should be remembering my face. _I'm going to take the Games by storm. Just wait…_

"Well _hi_, Vanity!" Flabella exclaims. "It's nice to meet you!" She turns back to the reaping balls and totters towards them. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, instead turning my head slightly to the right. Luxuriating in a folding chair with an easy grin on his face is my best friend, Victor of the 172nd Hunger Games. Bravo Martain was a night school kid like me until last year. Now he's a Victor, and he'll probably be my mentor. The other mentor is a man I don't recognize; District One has so many Victors that they all sort of blend together. Bravo notices me looking and smirks. Despite myself, I feel myself smiling back. Bravo is many things, one of them being the only person in Panem who can make me smile.

By the time I've turned back around, a blonde boy is already making his way towards me. He reaches the stage and Flabella nudges me towards him. I shoot her a look, but she skips away in her ridiculous heels. "Shake hands, tributes!" she sings.

My district partner is probably going to be my ally. As I place my hand in his, I look at him. He has a smug, confident grin on his face and looks easygoing, almost relaxed. That's a bit worrisome; I don't want a lazy idiot for a team member. I suppose I'll find out more about him on the train ride.

"This is going to be such an exciting year!" Flabella is telling the audience, and judging as this is the only year I'll ever be in the Hunger Games, I'm inclined to agree with her.

* * *

I am sitting rigidly in my chair, waiting for visitors. I don't think Bravo is allowed to come; as a mentor, they've probably already hustled him to the train. I'm not sure if there's anyone else who _will _come (I'm inclined to doubt it) but a knock on the door makes me revise the opinion. It slips open and Agate walks in. _Right, I suppose he wants to give me some last minute tips._

It is only when he gets quite close that I notice the rigidity of his muscles and throw myself to the side. His punch would have struck me directly in the stomach if it had hit; because of my reaction, Agate hit the chair instead. He grins, pulling back his hand and rubbing the knuckles. "Oww. Okay, Vanity, you're definitely ready."

I get back into my chair suspiciously. "Last minute tips?" I ask, watching him in case he tries punching me again.

As though to reassure me that he won't be throwing any more punches, he crosses his arms across his chest. "You," he says, "are the leader of the Careers. It isn't even a question."

"Okay," I reply. It's a dangerous position, but I think I can handle it. Besides, I know I have what it takes to bring us to victory, and how can I trust anyone else with that? I have no idea of my team mates will be competent or incompetent, and until I know I'm going to assume that I'll have to take the leadership position.

"Listen to Bravo," says Agate. "Kid knows what he's doing; he's won the Games already." I only raise an eyebrow; I was going to listen to Bravo anyway. Well, unless he's acting too cocky for his own good. Bravo can be an idiot sometimes. "Make an impression on the Capitol," Agate rattles off. "And during the Bloodbath, you _have _to kill the most. Anyone that comes near you that isn't a Career, they're your enemy. If you let them get away, you'll only have to fight them later."

I nod. "Got it," I say. Agate stands in front of me for a minute, and then swallows.

"Good luck," he says, clapping me on the shoulder. "I'll be watching." He winks. "You'll be fine—you got trained by me, what the hell could go wrong?"

"Shoo," I grumble, waving my hands at him, and my trainer leaves with a smile.

No one else should be coming. No one else…

The door opens, and for once in my life I am stunned into complete and total silence.

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here."

It's my _mother _on the other side of the freaking door, and my _father, _and… my sister? I find myself exploding out of my seat. My family has shuffled into the room, but when they see me storming towards them they attempt to inch back towards the door they just shut. "What in the name of _fuck _are you doing here?" I shriek, stabbing my father in the chest with my index finger. "What the _fuck?_"

This is not what I need. I don't need this right before the Games. I'll talk with them when I get back, but _not now. Just go away…_

To his credit, my dad doesn't flinch. "Vanity?" he says slowly, questioningly. "Where—where have you _been _—I thought you were dead…" My mother nods emphatically, tears gathering in her eyes. In the corner, my sister's face is impassive. _Jewel always was a useless little brat._

"I _ran away_, dumbass," I snarl. "I'm pretty sure you knew that." He opens his mouth and before he can get the words out I shove him, hard. "You think you can just walk in here, after I've made it oh so fucking clear that I don't want to see you, and make it up to me?"

"Vanity!" Jewel snaps. "It isn't his fault."

"Oh, shut up," I say. "You probably don't even know the whole freaking story."

"I do," Jewel tells me. "Dad wouldn't let you train and you ran away." Her eyes turn to the floor. "I've missed you," she whimpers.

"It's too late for the sister act," I say, although her tear-filled eyes make me hurt in a way I haven't hurt for years. "And you _don't _know the story. Why don't you tell her, dad? Tell her the part you _left out."_

My father's face grows stern, although I can sense that he's cracking. "Vanity!" he exclaims. "There is simply no need…"

He's not going to tell her, so I will. "We used to have an uncle," I tell Jewel. "He volunteered when Castor here got reaped. He died in the Bloodbath. Castor's been hiding behind his fears of the Hunger Games for the past 24 years! And he tried to drag us down with him!" I turn to my father, and I realize that words can't even contain my anger. "Get the fuck out," I growl, my fingers twitching. "Get out, or I'm going to bash in your fucking face."

"Vanity…" my mother whimpers, and I explode.

"GET OUT!" I scream, snagging my chair and throwing it in the direction of my huddling family. With a confused yelp, my sister hurtles from the room, my mother following close behind. My father stops at the door, sees that I am holding a broken shard from a vase I just shattered, and leaves hastily, the door banging behind him.

I realize that I have clutched the shard too tightly, and I am bleeding. "Oww," I mutter, watching as blood trails down my wrist. "Oww…" Tears spring to my eyes. _Fuck, what's happening, I'm not weak like this… I… _I fall to my knees, clutching my hands in my lap, and the tears stream down my cheeks. _It's from the pain, _I tell myself, because that is excusable. Caring about the family I abandoned is inexcusable, but that's alright, because I don't care about them at all… really I don't…

**Iris Saltness, 17**

**District Two**

The wine bottle rests in the center of our little circle, its elegant throat pointing in Lila's direction—for now. The point of Lila's little game is to _spin _the bottle, and the person it points to gets to choose one other person to spend some alone time in the closet with. There are eight of us; myself, Lila, Rocky, Sasha, Terroe, Flint, Flynn, and Gaia. There is not a single person here who I have any interest in—romantically. Flint, however, has the ability to help me with something, and that means that I'll be doing my utmost to get him in the closet with me.

"Alright!" Lila giggles, tossing her candy-pink hair. Her father is the Mayor of District Two, which means that he can hire stylists from the Capitol to change her hair color. In the past three months, Lila's hair has been practically every color of the rainbow, and she's confided in me that next time her stylist comes, she's going to be getting tattoos.

Of course, her stylist won't be able to appear for at least another month. It is Hunger Games season now, and practically every good stylist in the Capitol is going to be busy.

"Time to spin!" Lila continues, grabbing the bottle around the middle and giving it a firm twist. "Here we go!" She claps her hands as the bottle twists and dances, light flickering off its concave surface. It scrapes against the cold concrete floor and eventually grates to a halt in front of Terroe. With a lecherous grin, he turns to Sasha.

"I choose you, babe," he says, and she squeals and claps her hands. I am a disciplined girl, but it is still rather difficult for me to resist the eye-roll that comes naturally to me. None of these teens have any idea what the real Iris Saltness is like, and I see no reason for them to ever know. Let them think that I'm a boy crazy airhead. When the time comes for me to use them, they'll never see me coming.

Sasha and Terroe slip off to the closet for five minutes of fun. I find myself making eyes at Flint. He's across the circle from me and looks pretty surprised that I seem to be interested. There's a reason for that. Flint must have been dropped on his face when he was a child, because he definitely has looks that only a mother could love.

Sasha and Terroe come back, and Lila looks as though she's having an aneurism from the excitement. "Next!" she squeals, jerking the bottle. It shivers and bounces and finally comes to rest facing Flynn, who nods.

"Iris," he says bluntly, getting to his feet. _Aw, damn it, _I think, but I don't let the annoyance show on my face. There's no reason to alienate Flynn, not when I could always use him later.

Instead of frowning, I jump to my feet and smile at Flynn, crossing the circle and dancing just out of his reach as we make our way to the closet. I slip inside first and let my blue eyes adjust to the dark as I find a storage unit for shoes and sit on it. Flynn comes in a moment later and shuts the door behind him, trapping us both in total darkness.

"So," I say. "What do you wanna talk about?"

"Talk?" Flynn asks, and lunges forward, grabbing my head in one large hand. I can't see his face, but I'm sure that he's grinning. I squirm, but can't manage to free myself from his grip.

"Aww, lay off, Flynn!" I exclaim, and his other hand snags my chin, tilting my head back. In the next second, his lips are pressed against mine, and I know my persona wouldn't resist. The Iris that everyone in District Two sees would probably continue to kiss Flynn, maybe even wind her fingers in his short dark hair. That is what I do, even though the _real _Iris would like nothing more than to push Flynn away and tell him to fuck off.

I don't know if it's been five minutes or not, but Flynn breaks the kiss. "Let's go back," he says, and I nod.

"That was fun, Flynn!" I say, marching past him and opening the door. Gently, I push my black hair back into place, half in front of my eyes. Flynn mussed it up when he kissed me.

We return to the circle and Lila winks at me before snatching the bottle. "Again!" she says, and I find myself trapped by the glittering rotation of the bottle. The swan-like neck gleams, and I realize that it is pointing directly towards me. I grin. _Victory._

"Flint!" I exclaim, subtly reaching into my skirt pocket to make sure the item is still there. My fingertips brush against it, and I grin as I shoot across the circle and take Flint by the hand, fairly dragging him towards the closet. I'm going to have to play my cards right; Flint is somewhat shy and definitely won't kiss me like Flynn did. I'm not worried, though. I can play him. I can play _anyone._

I shut the closet door behind him and lean against it. _No escaping for you, Flint. _I know he likes me; that's the problem. He's probably afraid of talking to me too much, in case he says something dumb and I get fed up with him. Well, today is Flint's lucky day, because no matter what he says, he's going to get kissed.

"Oh, Flint!" I say, trying to act innocent. "It's just you and me!"

"Yeah," says Flint, nervous and excited all at once. "It is." He comes a little closer. "Iris, I…"

"I have an idea!" I interrupt him. "How about we both do each other a _favor?"_

"A favor?" His voice is confused. I giggle, and step closer to him, wrapping my arms around chest. He stiffens, but then he begins to relax, tentatively putting one of his hands in between my shoulder blades.

"Yep!" I tell him, reaching into my pocket. "I got this bracelet for your sister but I couldn't find her _anywhere_. I was wondering if you could give it to her before the reapings, so when she volunteers everyone will see the bracelet I got her!"

"Oh," says Flint. "Yeah, Iris, I would've done that anyway."

"Oh," I say, sounding disappointed. "So you don't want me to kiss you?" I don't want to kiss Flint, but this is the only way to make sure he'll do what I ask. I've already reeled him in, and now it's time to play my final card.

He inhales sharply. "_What?_ You want… you want to kiss me?"

I stretch on my tiptoes, my lips brushing against his. "A lot," I whisper, and lean in, my tongue slipping from between my teeth and invading his mouth. He is frozen for a moment, and then responds beautifully, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around me. _Great, _I think. _He won't forget this. Poor baby will think we're a couple now, or something. And he'd do anything for his new girl—especially give his sister the bracelet from me._

This time, I have to break this kiss. I take his hand and press the bracelet into it, smiling up at Flint. "Please don't forget, baby," I say, pouting. "This means a lot to me."

Flint seems shell-shocked. "Of-of course I won't forget, Iris," he says finally. "That—that was…"

"Awesome," I finish for him. _Necessary, _I add, in my head.

We exit the closet to find the circle broken up, most of the teens heading for the stairs. Lila spots us and hurries over. "How did it go?" she exclaims, seeming genuinely interested in my response.

"Flint is _such _a sweetie!" I exclaim. "We had a great time, right?" Here I insert a suggestive wink and a gentle nudge to the ribs. He blushes bright red and nods furiously before leaning down and (carefully) pressing his lips against my cheek. I giggle, trying not to look pissed. It appears as if I've succeeded, because Lila is squealing excitedly and Flint looks pleased with himself.

"I won't forget!" he tells me, waving the bracelet in the air. _You'd better not, _I think, fighting to keep my smile in place. Chisle is District Two's chosen volunteer, and if Flint doesn't give her the bracelet, I'll be waiting home for another year. Nobody in District Two wants me to be their champion. The muscles I do have are small enough to be remarkably unthreatening, and the façade I've worked up over the years has everyone convinced that I'm too stupid to tell the front of a spear from its butt. My parents managed to get me a private training room in the training center, so no one could watch me work. This year is going to be a massive surprise to everyone… except me, of course.

Lila grabs my shoulder and practically drags me up the stairs behind Flint. The rest of the gang is waiting around outside the door that hides away the basement, drinking god-knows-what that they probably stole from Lila's fridge. Flint is the only one who isn't present; he's running off to give Chisle my little gift. When that bracelet wraps around her wrist… well, I doubt she'll be in any state to volunteer.

"Alright!" Lila says, adopting the commanding tone of voice she inherited from her father. "We have to set out, right now! Reapings, you know."

There is a collective groan. "Why do we even go?" Rocky grumbles. "We all know who's gonna volunteer. That dumbass Cotton got picked this time, and Chisle."

"One of them might be indisposed," Gaia pipes up. This is unusual; she's a quiet kid. Is she guessing what I'm planning, perhaps? No, it doesn't seem as if she is. Gaia doesn't suspect me—no one would ever suspect me of that level of intelligence.

I force myself to giggle. "_Right_," I say, sauntering towards the door. "Indisposed. Haha!" The others laugh and Gaia looks a bit put out. Oh, right, she doesn't like to be insulted. _No more mistakes, _I remind myself, as we step into the bright sunlight. _Any mistakes will get me killed in the Hunger Games, and right now I simply can't afford that._

* * *

The main square is filled with chattering people as Lila, Gaia and I make our way to the seventeen-year old girls section. I hear the names _Chisle _and _Cotton _much more than I'd like, but it doesn't matter. I'm ready for action; I haven't seen Chisle anywhere, or Flint. No doubt he's slapping his sister's cheeks right now, shaking her prone form. The anesthesia coated on the inside of the thick bracelet only affects you if you've been wearing it for more than five minutes, so the poor dear probably collapsed right on the threshold of her house. She won't be waking up in time.

We settle into our places and the Mayor begins the boring speech that precedes the actual _reaping _part of the reapings. Lila is hanging onto her father's every word, her mouth gaping in a vapid circle. I pretend to pay attention too, but I couldn't give less of a fuck. We've heard it every year, and it gets boring, I'm not gonna lie.

_Finally_, the Mayor steps down and Lila smiles energetically, rocking back and forth on her soles. "Here comes Gario!" she exclaims, and I watch as the blue-skinned, red-haired man saunters to the microphone.

"Okay," he yawns. Gario always has a look of intense boredom on his face; I don't see how he hasn't been fired yet. "Uh, let's just start. I guess I should reap somebody…" He glances towards the glass bowls and shakes his head. "Why bother? Somebody's just gonna volunteer. So, our female tribute is… okay, start volunteering."

There is a pregnant pause. This is where my timing has to be perfect. I have to wait just long enough so people don't think I have anything to do with Chisle's disappearance, but not long enough that somebody volunteers before me. As soon as the whispering starts, I pull away from Lila.

"I guess I'll do it!" I call out merrily, tripping forward like an idiot. "I volunteer! Yay! Go me!" There is confused rumbling from the audience, and I know that they are wishing anyone but District Two's resident dumbass had volunteered. But it's too late now—Chisle never showed and I volunteered first. Rules are rules.

"Cool," Gario mutters, as I take my place beside him. "Alright, now boys."

This time, there is no pause. "I volunteer!" comes a voice from the eighteens section, and I watch as Cotton Dew ambles towards the stage. He is a tall boy, with messy dark brown hair, blue eyes, and an easy smile. He looks nothing like a Career is supposed to look. Neither do I, but my outward appearance is completely different than my character. I don't know if I can say the same for Cotton.

"Shake hands," Gario yawns, and I turn to my competitor and smile.

"Hi!" I say, clasping his hand in mine and shaking warmly. "I'm Iris Saltness!"

"I'm Cotton Dew," he tells me, smiling earnestly. "It's nice to meet you."

_It's nice to meet you too, _I think. _It'll be even nicer manipulating you. I hope you understand._

Something tells me that Cotton is an understanding sort of person.

* * *

Waiting in the Justice Building for my family, I am tense. They may see me like everyone else does, and yet… I don't know. It frightens me to be around them. I'm always stretching towards them, reaching out with tentative fingers, but…

My parents are like me. Very good with façades, very good with walls. It seems that I am unable to breach those walls. If I could just know whether or not they loved me, I would be content. Well, if they didn't love me I suppose I wouldn't really be content, but I've lived all my life assuming that they don't care for me. I would get over it.

_This is the last time you'll see me, _I think. _Whether or not it is for a few weeks or forever remains to be seen. _

"Iris!" my mother exclaims, swooping down and pecking each of my cheeks. "How are you, dear? Are you nervous? Excited? Goodness, what made you want to volunteer?" She laughs. "I didn't think you were interested in the Games _that _much, sweetie!"

It is so, _so _fake. How can she think I don't notice? I can almost feel the wall as I sit up in my chair, feel it emanating from her very being. How is anyone fooled by this crap?

"I don't even know!" I confess. "I guess I just thought I could do it!" I insert a breathy giggle at the end of the sentence. My mother's expression doesn't change, and it makes me wonder. Maybe she sees right through me, maybe she doesn't. _How can I know…?_

This is why I hate being around them. All these damnable questions are floating around in my head and I can't concentrate with them around. Even my wall is breached, just a tiny bit, but it is enough and it isn't safe.

"Good luck," my father tells me gruffly. "I have to get back to the office, so… I'll be seeing you in a few weeks, Iris."

"Bye!" I say, and I am almost positive that he doesn't give a damn whether I live or die.

"Bye, sweetie!" my mother echoes, trailing after him. I exhale quietly and let a vapid expression creep onto my face. There, I'm back to normal. No need to worry about them loving me, or anything like that. I'm in control now, and when I'm in control I'm safe from pretty much everything.

Lila enters the room next, alone. I am slightly surprised to see her; I hang around with her but I didn't think she liked me that much. "Wow, Iris," she says, fiddling with her pockets. "I didn't see that one coming."

"You'll watch me in the Games, right?" I flip my black hair.

Lila nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, totally! It's gonna be so much fun!" Her face turns thoughtful. "Unless you die. That would kinda suck."

I wave my hand airily. "I'm not gonna die, silly!" I tell her. There is an awkward silence, and then Lila runs over to give me a hug.

"I'll see you when you get back then!" she exclaims, breathing into my neck. "Have fun!"

"Yeah!" I say, and wait until she leaves before allowing my face to return to a more natural expression; a slightly pointed grin—not malicious, but certainly not kitties and puppies either.

When they see the real me, they won't know what hit them.

**Cotton Dew, 18**

**District Two**

I am breathing heavily, sweat making a slow journey from my hairline to my jaw before dripping onto my white shirt. I close my eyes and feel it trickling, slowly, slowly, my heart and breathing rates slowing down. The morning air is clear and cool against my skin, and I am smiling because it is such a joy to be alive, to be leaning against this crumbled wall and simply breathing, breathing.

My breaths are numbered. Everyone's breaths are numbered, actually, but mine might be ending a bit earlier than everyone else's. Today is the day I volunteer for the Hunger Games. It makes me a bit sad to think about it. I am giving up a simple life, but a happy one. I could have spent the rest of my days the way I spend them now, cloud-watching, making dinner for my father, just living.

But dad is getting older, and we are steadily running out of money. I think maybe my father and I could have made it without me winning the Hunger Games, but I don't want to risk it. My father is both a parent and a friend, and he deserves to be comfortable in his old age. If I die in the Games, then he has one less mouth to feed. If I win, we have as much money as we'll every need, and a beautiful big house that I can explore until my legs ache.

I don't really want to die. I like this world, and I like what it can show me. There are these wildflowers that crop up in cracks in the asphalt here in District Two, or cling to the sides of buildings. They have white petals and yellow centers, and I always make sure to avoid stepping on them on my morning jog. They are stragglers, fighting to survive and somehow making the world a little bit better just by living. Still, if I picked one flower, just one, the world would not end. Its orbit would not cease, nor would any of the life cycles be affected. It would be one organism among billions, and its death would matter little.

The same is true of me, Cotton Dew. At my death, if I die, the world will continue as it always has. This thought is of amazing comfort to me. I don't want to leave this beautiful, beautiful world, but if I have to go, it will not fade. The world will remain beautiful, even with my blood staining the earth. Even my blood is beautiful; the bright red liquid that shimmers in direct sunlight and streaks across flesh of various shades and hues.

I don't know if I'll mind dying, so much. I'm not going to sit back and let it happen; I'm going to fight for my lovely world. But if I _do _die, I don't think I'll be very scared. Death is a necessary part of life, and all I ask is that there are others after me who can appreciate things like I do.

I come back to reality with a wistful smile on my face. People have been passing by and I didn't even notice. I enjoy people-watching. I don't know all that many people in District Two, so I can make up stories for practically everyone that strolls past.

A red-headed girl comes storming by, her face dark and her hands balled into fists. _Her little brother pulled on her puppy's tail, _I decide, _and they had a fight. Her parents sided with her little brother and she had to leave the house to cool off._

A tottering old man comes next, muttering under his breath and leaning heavily on his cane. His story is more convoluted than the red-headed girl's. _He was training for the Hunger Games, but his best friend beat him to the stage. His friend died in the Bloodbath, and it haunted this old man. He'd never said goodbye to his friend out of anger, and now he never would. To this day, he mumbles his apologies under his breath and hopes his best friend can find it in him to be forgiving._

A tall woman breezes past me, and I can see that she has a device strapped to her ear, one of the latest music players from the Capitol. _She's rich, _I decide, _and she wants to be cool. She's noticed what her daughter is into, and she wants to be like her daughter. She bought the both of them music players, and she wears her out every day, in the hopes that people like me will notice and understand what a cool mom she is._

I am enjoying this, but a sense of urgency that doesn't often affect me rears its head. _The reapings, _it reminds me. _You're the chosen tribute this year, you can't be late. _It took a lot of effort to convince the head of the Training Center, Pilate Tenebrine, to accept me as this year's pre-determined volunteer. To be honest, I didn't have much competition. All of the truly dangerous male tributes are younger than me, which means they still have time to volunteer. I don't, and after a lot of begging from me, Pilate broke and declared me the tribute.

I peel myself away from the broken wall and begin to jog. I'm not headed to school, which is where I usually go when I'm finished with my jog. It is to the reaping square I am headed, and it takes a lot of effort to prevent my feet from taking me where I normally go. I am going to miss my school, if I don't come back. It smells like books and apples in school, and we learn. We learn about the stars and Panem and about masonry, and although most of the other kids can't stand it, I eat it up. I love learning about this place that I'm in.

I continue to jog until the chatter of a multitude of people becomes apparent and I know I've made it. The eighteens section is my goal, and I slip through the crowd, smiling when I see the distinctive spiky black hair of my best friend. Tanner spots me and waves, clapping me on the shoulder as I stand next to him.

"Good luck, Cotton!" he tells me, grinning. "You're going to blow everyone away!"

"Thanks," I tell him. "Thanks for everything."

Tanner waves his hands. "Not now, Cotton! Wait until it's time to say goodbye. _Not _that I need to say goodbye to you, because I already know you can win it."

"Thanks, Tanner."

I notice vaguely that the Mayor has begun his speech. I close my eyes and let the soft cadences wash over me, lulling me into a blissful rapture of unawareness. I come back to reality when Tanner shakes my shoulder. "Alright, Cotton," he tells me. "Gario is about to call for male volunteers. Good luck, man! You'll be awesome."

"Alright, now boys," Gario yawns, and I step forward.

"I volunteer!" I call, stepping out of the crowd. Gario raises one eyebrow as I make my way to the stage. There aren't all that many cheers or claps for me, which I suppose is a little bit disheartening. _They think I'm going to die. They really don't believe I can win it at all. _I know my dad believes in me, and Tanner. I guess their support will have to suffice.

I climb up the stairs to the stage and glance at my district partner. She is totally dolled up; her eyelids are covered in shimmering purple powder, and her lips have been painted a succulent red. She has an empty sort of expression on her face, as if she isn't quite sure what's going on. That makes me smile; half the time I don't know what's going on either!

"Shake hands," Gario commands, and the girl snatches my hand and shakes it energetically. "Hi! I'm Iris Saltness!" she gushes. Her palm is warm against mine and I realize with a jolt that in a few weeks she might be dead.

I smile at her anyway. "I'm Cotton Dew," I tell her. "It's nice to meet you." She releases my hand with a girlish giggle and turns back to the crowd, waving madly. I wave a little myself, although I can tell that the citizens of District Two still won't support me because of a bit of waving. They think I'm spacy, and therefore weak. When I do train, they don't notice me. It is as if I have never existed in District Two, and if I die nothing will truly be lost.

Something tells me that I was allowed to volunteer this year because of that.

* * *

The Justice Building smells like leather and dust. I have been settled in a large room, sparsely furnished. There is a mirror hanging next to my head, and I swivel in my chair to look at myself. Large green eyes peer at me, framed by pale skin and dark, messy hair. I gave up with my hair a long time ago; no matter how much I brush it, somehow it still looks as though I just woke up.

A knock on the door forces me to tear my gaze away from the mirror. The door creaks open and Tanner pokes his head through the crack, grinning like a hyena. "You did it!" he exclaims, pushing the door open the rest of the way and jogging inside. "You were awesome up there, Cotton!" I notice my father walking in behind my best friend; technically, your family and friends are supposed to visit separately, but Tanner is as much a part of my family as my dad. I know my father considers Tanner a second son. Tanner's mom is an alcoholic and his dad skipped out on him, so he sleeps over at our house a lot. You can't tell from his often jovial expressions, but Tanner's had a bit of a rough life.

My life has been so much simpler in comparison. The worst thing that happened to me was my mother's sudden departure from our little family of three. Dad says she took off with a peacekeeper, but we can't know for sure. I was three at the time, and I don't remember her. It makes me sad, not knowing the face of the woman who bore me for nine months of her life, who cradled me with her own flesh and kept me safe through dark nights and harsh days.

Dad smiles at me and ruffles my hair. "I still wish you weren't going," he says. "But I understand why you thought it was necessary. You're a brave boy, Cotton."

"Don't worry, Cam," Tanner says, looking at my dad. "Cotton will do fine. He's strong, stronger than everybody thinks, and he's brave, like you said." Tanner flashes me a smile that would make any girl swoon. "I know you'll come home."

"In the arena," my father says. "You have to promise me one thing."

"What?" I'm curious; my dad doesn't often hold me to anything, which explains the abysmal mess our house has become.

"You have to stay true to yourself," Dad says. "Don't let anyone turn you into something you don't want to be. There's going to be killing in the arena, there's going to be bloodshed. I don't know if you're planning on spilling any blood, Cotton, but if you find yourself in that kind of situation, stop and think. Think about everything you do before you do it, son. You're a thinker, so it shouldn't be hard for you. Remember that killing is something you can't undo. Once you have blood on your hands, you can't wash it away." His face turns sad. "I don't want you to go bad, Cotton," he mumbles. "Self-defense is one thing, but cold-hearted murder… Just try to keep what I'm telling you in mind."

I nod furtively. "I'll do my best," I promise. I can't say anything more. I don't want to kill, really I don't—but I _have_ signed myself up for this. When the time comes, I very well may have to end another's life. I am in no way looking forward to it, but if someone is trying to kill me, I will fight them with everything I have. Human beings are designed to abhor death, as are all other living organisms. The only ones who do not fear death are the ones who are already dead.

Tanner seems a bit subdued from my father's speech about morality and my own soberness. He attempts a grin. "Your dad's right, Cotton," he says. "Don't lose yourself. Watch the clouds for me, okay?" I grin at that. I sometimes force Tanner to come to my ramshackle backyard, choked with weeds, and make him lay on his back in the grass. We stare at the sky for hours, and we watch the clouds.

I wonder if I'll be able to see the clouds in my arena.

"I'll try and find them," I tell Tanner. "Will you watch them for me, if… well, will you watch them for me?"

Tanner doesn't hesitate, even though I know he finds cloud-watching boring. "I'll watch them while you're away," he promises. "As long as you're away. I'll keep watching until you come back, and then we can watch together."

Dad extends his arms to me and I wrap myself in his embrace. "I love you so much," I tell him. "Stay safe until I get back."

"Don't worry about me," he says. "Focus on yourself."

I give Tanner a quick hug next. "No matter what," I tell him, "in case something happens and I _don't _make it back, keep on living. Never stop moving forward."

Tanner claps my back. "The same to you," he says. "Don't give up. We'll be rooting for you."

I know my hour must be coming to a close, because the two of them head for the door. Tanner gives me one last wave and then the door clicks shut, leaving me alone. The finality of this hour has depressed me. I don't want this to be my final _anything—_I want to stay alive forever, just so I can experience every new day. But the world doesn't need me alive. My father doesn't even need me alive. This is the only way I can help him, with either my victory or my death.

Win or die. I suppose that in the next week or so I'll be discovering whether or not I have it in me to be a winner. I can only keep on living, until I outlast the others or until my own life slips away from me. If I put it like that, it isn't so bad. It isn't so scary.

_I can do this_, I think, and wait for the peacekeepers to summon me.

* * *

**What better to celebrate the start of this SYOT than a Special Challenge? That's right, folks, your chance to earn $25 has just arrived. Here's the deal: I want you to make me a drabble 100 words or less. The prompt is "Snake" and it can have anything to do with the Hunger Games. PM me your drabble, if you leave it in the reviews I'll make nasty faces at you. Yes, you can only submit one.**

**JAYFISHY QUESTION TIME~**

**#003: Do you think it's better to be overconfident or to not have enough confidence?**

**#004: Which of these tributes seems the most dangerous?**


	3. The Reapings: Districts Three and Four

**Hello, friends! Sorry this came out so late in the day, as it took a long time for me to write it... I'd also like to apologize for the long delay in updates. I've been on vacation and I didn't want to work. Now I'm back, and the updates should return to normal. I'll let you guys know next time I go on vacation, can't believe I forgot last time...**

**Anyway, enjoy the chapter, my lovelies! (That sounded creepy... I'll shut up now.)**

* * *

**Binary Reisner, 16**

**District Three**

Scraps of metal are littered across the floor, an impossible mess that only I can understand. With a lunge, I scoop up several pieces and drop them into my lap, plucking a screwdriver from the pile of tools beside me. On my left is my near-finished creation, of which I can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. The box is black and glossy, the surface almost twinkling in the sunlight coming from my window. (Did I stay up all night? It appears so.)

When I pluck up the box, I can almost feel its internal machinery humming against my palm. But that's not right, it isn't quite done… Carefully, I pick up a set of prongs and flip the lid, avoiding the jagged scraps that shoot from the box's insides. Maneuvering carefully, I take a tiny screw and insert it into a hole at the very bottom of the box. As I turn the screwdriver, one of the jagged pieces slices into my finger. Frowning slightly, I pull away and stick the finger into my mouth, sucking at the blood greedily. In moments, my finger is covered in saliva and I am back with the box, finishing with the screw.

Shutting the lid and flipping the box over reveals the bottom end of the screw. I pick up the cap and twist it on deftly, stabbing a tiny rod-like piece of metal through the top to serve as a crank. Pushing it in with a finger, I watch as it slides into the interior of my creation. The rod protrudes only barely; if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't know it was there at all.

Time to test my toy. I twist the rod and flip the lid. Instead of the jagged bits of metal from earlier, a tiny strain of metallic song emanates from the inner working of the box. As long as the rod is turned before the box is opened, the metal will not spring forth, and music will play. If you don't know about the rod, you will get a palm full of metal.

It is a morbid thing to do. The toy is dangerous; it is a weapon and as such it is illegal in District Three. Still, it has an innocuous covering, and I am not planning on ever taking it out of this room. Besides, today is a morbid day, and it has affected me (however much I've tried to ignore the feeling.)

Thinking about the reapings brings on a surge of terror that makes my hands tremble and my palms sweat. My intense reaction makes me feel like a fool; I shouldn't be affected so greatly. The chances that I will be chosen for the Games are minimal. There are many other children in District Three; some who have to take tesserae, even. As it goes, I am fairly safe. I am in no way completely safe, but I am close. The event of me being picked is so small that I should put the macabre fantasy out of my mind completely.

But I can't. I can't and it bothers me. _I'm acting like a child, _I think, balling my hands into fists. I find that I am jittering, my hands automatically reaching out to fiddle with my new toy. I toss it into the air, catch it, and let it drop into my lap. I flip the lid with the prongs and watch the metal explode from the inside of the box, only to recede when I tap the lid shut again. I turn the rod and listen to the music.

Taking the box, I stand up and drop it onto my dresser. Turning, I begin my usual pacing route, crossing across the room and around the hamper, next to the closet, circle around the trash bin, come along the bed and start again. The route is so familiar to me that there is no need for me to think about it. My mind is on other things; reapings and the potential I have to be picked in them fill my mind like tracker jackers buzzing, buzzing, buzzing away.

_There is almost no chance that I will be chosen, _I remind myself. _I am one of thousands. My name has been entered far less than dozens of others._

I shake my head. _True, but there is always a chance. One would think that twelve year olds would not be picked for the Hunger Games, and they are, all the time. I have a greater chance the older I get. This is the biggest chance I've had so far._

"Binary?" The voice comes from the doorway and I whip my head around, dark brown hair flying into my face. I am panting slightly and I try not to let how startled I was show on my face. It is not difficult to startle me. My mother stands in the door, a gentle smile on her lips. In her hands rests a simple black dress. The irony of the situation strikes home and I raise my hand.

"Nice color," I say, my words jumbling as they usually do. I clench my eyes shut, get it right in my head, and try again. "Color of death." A pause. "Scary," I manage at last, with a half-hearted chuckle. I'm sure she understands what I was going for.

"I know," she says, stepping into my room. She is wearing shoes, which is good because she'd most likely have gotten something stuck in her sole by now if she wasn't. "It's the only thing I have for you, sweetheart."

I nod and take the dress. My eyes are icy blue and they match my demeanor. Even now, with my mother here, I have nothing to say and I won't speak without something to say. My mother leaves the room with a quiet sigh, and for a moment I feel sorry that I can't be a little bit more normal.

But it's only a moment. I can't be anyone else, and wishing for something like that is illogical. She should know better, honestly.

* * *

The dress ends up clinging to my frame. It makes me feel uncomfortable but I don't complain. The only person here to complain to is Circia, and it isn't her fault that I'm wearing it. The speeches have been going on for quite some time now, and I hate them. _Boring, boring, boring. _I tap my fingers against my crossed arms and glare up at the escort, Nama Pene. She is still complaining of rebellion and duty and Games. I dislike her immensely, because she is from _there. _The Capitol, the shining head of our great nation, where they slaughter children and feast on their blood like animals. They make me sick.

I am glaring so hard that Circia puts a hand on my shoulder. She is a friend of mine, 16 like me. She has a cool head always, even during situations like this that just _scream _stress. I respect her for it.

"Calm, Binary," she soothes. "The Antiviruses don't like it when you look so upset." Antivirus means Peacekeeper for us. She made up the code when I said something foolish about Peacekeepers in a public setting. I regret the foolishness, but Circia has prevented me from ever making a mistake like that again. Last I heard, the term had become somewhat popular.

"It is time to pick one female tribute for the 173rd Games," says Nama. "Remember, District Three: she serves as an offering to your Capitol, to keep the peace. She serves as a reminder that you have wronged us, and as a reminder that even now we feed you and clothe you and keep you safe." Her words irritate me, and I narrow my eyes slightly, furrowing my eyebrows.

Nama walks steadily to the reaping bowl, pulling one slip from its glassy contents. My stomach clenches abruptly and the fear that threatens to swallow me returns tenfold. _It will not be me. It may be me. We will wait and see…_

She unfolds the slip. "Binary Reisner," she says, and I feel the world around me crack in two. "You are the district's chosen one. Come forward and accept your fate."

The fear is choking me and I want to scream but I don't do things like that. Abruptly I shove the girl in front of me out of the way, feeling a pang of remorse as she stumbles and falls to the ground. I step over her legs and into the center aisle. District Three is quiet.

Nama watches me as I step onstage. As soon as I am settled next to her, she gazes into the audience. "Are there any volunteers for Binary?" A tiny flicker of hope rises in my chest and I quash it brutally. Sure enough, no one steps forward, no one raises a hand. It would be _illogical _of them to save me, not when they have a whole life left.

"Next," says Nama, when she has determined what I have already realized, "we will choose a partner for Binary." Before she moves to the reaping bowls, I can see that there is some sort of commotion going on. The crowd is rippling, surging, and there are white-suited Peacekeepers everywhere. I watch the way they move and am able to guess their target from the shifting patterns: a black-haired boy who is trying unsuccessfully to blend in amongst the others. Nama reaches the bowl at the same time a Peacekeeper grabs the boy by the throat. More slip up to join him, and Nama unfolds the slip. "Will Fison Triker please come forth?"

"I volunteer!" I raise my eyebrows at the desperate shout. The barrel of a gun rests against the boy's forehead, and the Peacekeepers still clutch him as though he is some kind of trophy, but he is smiling in victory. "For the Hunger Games. Me. I volunteer."

I cannot see their faces, but I am guessing that the Peacekeepers are enraged. They are frozen for a moment, and abruptly one of them shoves the boy to the ground. "It's your death, you little shit." The words carry over the silent square, and yet the boy seems joyful as he picks himself up. The bright orange of the uniform he's wearing attracts my eyes as I watch him jog towards me. I wish I had a sketchpad; his features are intriguing and I would love to jot them down. I suppose there will be time enough for that.

He jogs onstage, and Nama glares at him. "Be somber, boy," she says. "This is not an occasion for laughter."

He grins anyway. "Sorry," he says. "Can't help it." His face is flushed.

Her nostrils flare. "What is your name?"

"I'm Psychosis Imp, but I prefer Psyche."

"Psychosis and Binary, shake hands," Nama orders. "Your fates are tied together now. Only one of you can return here alive."

_I am well aware of that, Nama Pene, _I think, but I say nothing as I turn to the boy. His hand is extended, and tentatively I reach out and take it. He shakes enthusiastically, and even though I am not smiling he doesn't seem put out. In fact, he seems interested, as though he is wondering why my face is so chilly.

Let him wonder. He won't be getting anything from me. I won't fall prey to any of the tricks he might have up those bright orange sleeves…

* * *

I manage to install myself on a pleasant leather couch in my waiting room. The couch is nice, but it is mere seconds before I am on my feet and circling it, again and again. My fingers dance nervously on my hips and I continuously grind my teeth together. It is unhealthy and will break down the enamel. I don't know why I'm doing it.

The door squeaks and I stop, twisting to see what triggered the sound. It is opening, revealing the tear-streaked face of my mother. She rushes at me, arms open wide, and catches me in a hug. I am stiff, my arms at my sides. No one hugs me. It is awkward and I wish she would stop, but I keep my mouth shut and endure it. She is my mother. I will be stoic for her.

"Poor Binary," she says, pulling away. Her blue eyes are moist and glistening. My mother's eyes are nothing like mine. Where mine are hard and cold and sharp, hers are buttery and soft and warm. There are times where I wonder how the drastic change occurred. It is possible to look at strands of DNA, although the technology is limited to people with high clearances. If I examined our DNA, what would I find that would be different?

"Hey," Tect says. He is rocking on his heels, and I understand his discomfort: he and I are siblings but we are not close in the traditional sense. It is a rare day that I converse with him. "Sorry," he says abruptly. "I hope that dress isn't your funeral dress. It looks like one."

I shrug. I don't have anything to say in response to that. After an awkward moment, Tect moves backwards, towards the door. "Here," he mumbles, tossing something at it. I somehow manage to catch it and examine it curiously. It's an old, cracked watch, and I realize that it's Dad's. Mother gave it to Tect after Dad had a heart attack and left us. _And now it's mine… _I watch as Tect glances at the broken watch before running out of the room.

My mom watches him go. "I never understood why you two were like that," she says softly. "Why can't you get along?" She doesn't look like she expects an answer, but I have one to give her.

"He's stubborn," I exclaim, crossing my arms over my chest. He _is _stubborn, and very irritating about it. We would fight dreadfully, when we were still children.

She looks sad, and I almost want to revise the words, but after a moment of consideration I let them stay.

My mother sighs. Her eyes are still wet and she pulls me in for another stiff embrace. "I love you, sweetie," she says, placing a hand on my head. I do my best not to flinch away from the contact; it isn't for me. "Do your best."

_I always do._

She exits the room with many blown kisses, tears, and longing backward glances. Every time I am there, waving at her solemnly without even a trace of a smile on my face. What is there to smile for? Death is not a matter that deserves smiling or laughter (as Nama would say.) Death is death.

I am still thinking about death when Diota and Genera walk in. Both girls have identical scowls on their faces. "What in the _fucking fuck _was that?!" Diota exclaims almost immediately. "How did that happen?"

Genera scowls. "That bitch Nama," she snaps. "Acting all high and mighty because she's from the Capitol. Fuck that!"

They are both enraged. In the anger, they are not thinking straight. It will do me no good to remind them that it isn't Nama's fault; they simply won't listen. Genera looks at me and some of the anger fades away. "I'm so sorry, Binary," she exclaims. "I know how you feel about the reapings." She gives a slight shudder. "You didn't deserve this."

"Damn right she didn't deserve it," Diota grumbles. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she is clearly very bitter about this. I wish she could calm down, but Diota doesn't often remain calm. "Look," she continues. "I'm sorry about this, Binary. I'm going to miss debating with you."

I understand what she's trying to do. She wants this to be short and sweet so she can leave. Diota was never one for waiting around.

"I'll miss you," I stammer. There are more things to say but my mouth is being a traitor and it's too hard to try. Genera looks at me for a moment before wrapping her arms around me. She knows I don't like hugs, so this is probably for herself.

"Bye, Binary," she says. "Kick some ass for me, okay?"

"I'll do the best," I gasp, "I can do." I collect my thoughts. "I'll try my best," I say finally.

She knows that I have trouble with long sentences, or really, with any sentences at all. She hugs me closer before letting me go. "Miss you," she says softly, turning around. She and Diota don't look back as they walk away.

The next to walk into the room is Arc Leher. His blue eyes are gloomy, and he sits down on the couch with a sort of defeated sigh. I sit next to him. For a while, no one speaks.

"You know," says Arc suddenly. "You could get away." The danger of his words is huge, but he doesn't seem to notice it. "Get away from the other tributes at the Cornucopia, I mean." That isn't what he means. Arc is trying to tell me to run, to somehow escape and keep my life.

"I don't think escaping… is the best of options," I say. "Arc. They'll only kill me… you know that."

"You could do it," he argues. "C'mon, Binary. You're the biggest mind I've ever seen. You could think of something."

"My mind can't save me in _there, _Arc," I say. Leaning against his shoulder is easier than sitting ramrod straight. He allows it, and we sit in silence for a while longer.

"I have to go," he says at last. "Take care of yourself, Binary. I'll be rooting for you." His exit is hurried and awkward. I don't smile at him when he leaves. I haven't smiled once.

The door opens and the visitor I know will be last pokes her head in. Circia is not crying; her facial expression is similar to Arc's. "Binary," she says. "I'm so sorry." I shrug, indicating that I'll accept the words. She comes a little closer. "You've been a good friend. I hope that we can maintain that friendship."

Friendships through the grave do not work. She wants me to live.

"I'll live," I say suddenly. I don't know why the words slipped out, especially since I've made a promise that will be extremely difficult to keep. I am impulsive when I am stressed. It is not good.

"I'm glad," Circia says. "I'm glad you'll live. Don't you give up, Binary."

_I wasn't planning on it, _I think, but I only nod at her. There is no reason to articulate what should be obvious.

"Good luck," says Circia. Even as she's leaving, my palms begin to sweat. _Luck. I can't count on luck. I need logic, pure logic. Logic will save me in the end, not luck. _

_ Luck hasn't been on my side, of late._

**Psychosis "Psyche" Imp, 17**

**District Three**

Breakfast time in prison is one of the worst times of day.

For starters, the so-called "breakfast" is some kind of unidentifiable slop filled with God-knows-what. There are chunks in it (never a good sign) and it is the color of glue. It tastes like vomit, and I know what that tastes like because I've had my face jammed in vomit before (a highly unpleasant experience).

Then, of course, there are the hecklers, the people who constantly try to get your extra food through any means necessary. The food tastes like crap but without it I'll starve. I have to protect it from the hecklers, or I'll go hungry for the morning and that is really just not good.

They don't give is silverware, which means I have to dig into the slop with my hands. "I hate this," I groan quietly, sucking the lumpy mixture off my fingers. "I fucking hate this."

"If you don't like it, you can give it to me!" Sliver sounds as though he's right behind me. He's nineteen and one of the most irritating creatures on this planet. I can feel his pointy chin resting on my shoulder as he stares down at my food, his blue eyes glinting greedily.

"I meant the situation," I clarify warily, shifting a bit closer to my tray. "Not the food."

"Aww, but look at you!" Sliver complains. "You've got some muscle! Look at me; I'm skinny as a bone! C'mon, mate, you don't need all that…" His hand moves towards the slop and I slap it away.

"Knock it off," I say, and I feel a harsher slap to the back of my head.

"Don't be such a bitch about it!" Sliver snarls. "I'm hungry!"

"We're all hungry!" I say, turning my head around. There is a sharp crack and pain spreads across my cheek. "You _slapped _me?!" The worst part is, I can understand why he did it. He's hungry and he really does think he's more entitled to the food than I am. My refusal to share is probably driving him crazy.

Still, a challenge is a challenge and I'm not going to turn it down. I get to my feet and receive a punch to the lip. It splits and blood trails down my chin. With a yell, I grab my tray and slam it into the side of his head, covering his face in the gooey mixture. "There! Take your damn food!" I exclaim.

Something slams into the side of my head and I recognize the pain. _Oh God damn it, Peacekeepers. _They'll never let a kid finish a fight here.

There is the familiar dragging sensation I get when a Peacekeeper is pulling me outside. I already know what's going to happen; they'll shackle me to one of the pipes outside the prison, directly in the sunlight. It gets baking hot out there, and the heat of the day hasn't even shown up yet.

Sure enough, a wave of heat rolls over me and I know we're outside. My right arm is extended over my head and I feel the metallic click of a handcuff being placed on my wrist. A similar click alerts me to the fact that the cuff is locked against the pipe. The guard chuckles something, moves away, and kicks a spray of dirt into my face. Some of it gets into the cut on my lip, and I hiss in pain, inducing some laughter.

It is only once he's moved away that I open my eyes. Sliver has been shackled to the pipe as well, just far enough that I can't reach him. His face still has goo on it, and he's busily licking it up as best he can. My eyes are drawn instantly to the tall fence in front of me. On the other side is buildings and asphalt and _freedom, _close enough to look at but much too far to reach. I think they take us out here just to show us the freedom that we can't have. It drives me crazy.

I try to rest my leg against the ground and wince as something stabs me in the shin. Standing up, I look down and my pulse quickens. The rock on the ground is thick and pointed, narrowing into what looks to be a sharp end. It must have rolled over here when the guard kicked at me.

I kneel and snag the rock, turning it over in my palm. Sliver has noticed me and is watching with wide eyes. I grin at him (not mocking, I'm being sincere about this) and raise it over the chain connecting my shackle to its twin against the pipe. I slam the rock down and check the chain. There is a slight dent, nothing more.

The next half hour is filled with me raising the rock and slamming it down. Sliver seems enraptured as I continue the task. Freedom is so damn close now. I can't give up. I can't…

There is a clang and I fall backwards into the dust. Slowly, I raise my right arm to see the shackle locked firmly around my wrist, the chain broken and dangling. For a moment, I simply stare.

Then I bolt to my feet and run for the fence.

Sliver is quiet. He understands why I can't go back for him; it would take much too long. Besides, the idea of someone escaping is beautiful to him. It shows him that someday he might have a similar opportunity.

The fence doesn't raise much of a problem. I grip the bars in my hands and scuttle upwards like a monkey. The barbed wire at the top stabs into my knees but I ignore it is I hurl myself down. The ground rushes up to meet me and I scrape my palms against it, but I'm on the outside of the fence and there's nothing stopping me now.

With an exuberant whoop, I hurtle down the street, hoping to get far away from the prison as quickly as I can. This opportunity isn't going to come again, I think…

As soon as I turn the corner, I run smack into a Peacekeeper.

It looks as though he was coming back from some coffee break or whatnot. When he sees my uniform, he grabs for the gun in his belt. By then I've shot past him and am turning into a side street. My heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest. _I don't even care if they kill me. Just don't make me go back there, _please _don't…_

There are feet pounding behind me. The Peacekeeper probably got his friends to come along. I pant like a dog, shooting forward and trying to ignore the sound of bullets. If I get hit, it's all over.

There is the sound of voices. _People can hide me, and I doubt the Peacekeepers will shoot at civilians, _I think, and turn towards the noise. It grows louder, and it is only when I burst into the reaping square that I realize what's going on here.

They don't bring prisoners to the reapings. Our names are removed from the reaping bowls. We don't count, apparently; we'd bring embarrassment to Panem. I guess I can see it. Of course, I'm not a real criminal, but nobody cares about that. The orange jumpsuit makes me a bad guy.

I slip into the crowd and duck down low, trying to stay out of the eyes of the Peacekeepers. I don't think it's working, because I hear shouting and annoyed exclamations. Rising about everything is the firm voice of who I'm guessing is the escort for District Three. "Will Fison Triker please come forth?"

It is only as the barrel of a gun is pressed to my head that the idea occurs to me.

"I volunteer!" I yell, grinning like a fiend. _This _is how I will gain my freedom: by fighting for it. I can do this, I know I can. Prison is probably just as bad as the Games, anyway. "For the Hunger Games," I add, in case they didn't get it. "Me. I volunteer."

The Peacekeeper holding my shoulder shoves me roughly. I fall to the ground and blink up at his leer. "It's your death, you little shit," he says. I can't help myself; I smile hugely as I get up and move towards the stage. The whole square is hushed; those who knew me and my mother whisper angrily and everyone else just seems mystified.

As I reach the stage, the grey-skinned escort glares at me. "Be somber, boy," she says. "This is not an occasion for laughter."

Maybe she's embarrassed by me. I can see that; this is a big day for her and I'm probably spoiling it. Unfortunately, I can't stop smiling. "Sorry. Can't help it."

She rolls her eyes. "What is your name?"

"I'm Psychosis Imp, but I prefer Psyche."

"Psychosis and Binary, shake hands," the escort says. "Your fates are tied together now. Only one of you can return here alive."

I turn to the dark-haired girl standing next to me. She is tall, with icy blue eyes and wide hips. I extend my hand to her, still grinning in victory. She takes my hand after a moment, staring at me unrelentingly. I wonder why she won't smile. She doesn't seem to be the trusting sort. I don't know her at all, but I'm going to learn more about her, I guess. I can figure her out. I can figure anything out! I'm on top of the world here. Free, finally free, and the only thing left to do is win.

* * *

They take me to the Justice Building, but it makes no sense because I have no one to visit me.

My parents are dead, and all of my friends are prisoners. I wonder if my father would like to visit me. He died the day after my mom found out she was pregnant. He was trying to steal something (I don't remember what), and they shot him for it.

My mother, I know she wouldn't want to visit me. We were never close, and if she was alive I wouldn't be too happy with her. My incarceration was all her fault, you see.

My mother had come from a wealthy family. As such, she assumed she wouldn't have to work very hard to make her way in life. When she discovered that she was wrong, she faked a degree in psychology and began spreading around her services as a psychologist. My mom was probably the worst psychologist on the planet. She would listen to people's problems and give them the worst advice her twisted little head could come up with. I don't know why. I think it must have made her happy, knowing that she could play with people's lives so easily.

They found her out eventually (of course they did.) She'd messed with so many people, and they all wanted revenge. My mom knew that the Peacekeepers were coming, and she had no interest in going to jail. She left me in the parlor, went up to her room, and hung herself. I discovered the body and panicked, running downstairs to let the Peacekeepers in. Did I ever suspect that they would label me an accomplice to her crimes? No. That would have been ridiculous.

The Peacekeepers had to blame someone, and they blamed me, a 15 year old boy. It wasn't hard for people to believe that I had worked with my mother in the scam; after all, I reaped the benefits of the hefty salary she received. They sentenced me to fifty years in prison, and if I hadn't gotten away today, I'd still be locked up, wasting away into nothing.

Not anymore. Now I'll be alive and fighting for freedom. Even if I don't get it, I'll never be behind bars again. One way or another, I'll end up with an outcome I can be happy with. I'd rather live (wouldn't anyone?) but I'd rather die than go back to jail. It all works out for me.

I've never felt more alive.

**Britomartis "Brita" Mare, 16**

**District Four**

There is a moment of utter peace between the point where my mind and body wakes that I am content. In the fuzzy greyness between my half-open eyelids, I have no fears, no worries, no regrets. It doesn't matter that I am Brita Mare, this year's District Four female tribute.

With that thought, I groan and bury myself in my soft pillows. It's not that I have a problem with being a tribute, because I really don't. I am in no way worried about this. I don't give up for anything, especially not competitions. If the other tributes think they're going to be able to mow me down, then they're dead wrong.

No, what's really bothering me is that the chosen volunteer this year is a complete (pardon me) dick. Kroy Tourke and I have had problems with each other from practically my first day training. He always called me weak and stupid, and I responded by waiting patiently for a few weeks and then managing to persuade him into the teacher's lounge at school, where Mrs. Flanagin was getting changed. Needless to say, Kroy and I aren't on the best of terms. Generally, what people say doesn't actually piss me off, but Kroy is different. He drives me nuts sometimes, he really does.

I try to squirm a bit further into the blankets, and screech when someone yanks the covers off me. Flipping over, I cock my head when I see Arabelle bouncing on my bed, a brilliant smile on her face. "How'd you get in here?" I ask, sitting up and rubbing at my dull green eyes. My hair is plastered against the back of my neck, and I peel it off with a slight grimace.

"Your parents let me in," Arabelle says, waving her hands as if it doesn't matter. "They want you at the training center, they're gonna have a pep talk with the two volunteers and they obviously want you there!"

"Really?" I ask. "When was I supposed to be there?"

She thinks about it. "Kinda like… now."

"Geez!" I exclaim, bolting out of bed. "This is just not my day, is it?"

"You should put this on," Arabelle says, lobbing a ball of crumpled fabric towards my head. I snatch it out of the air and shake it, revealing a dress that only Arabelle could ever find appropriate.

"I can't wear this," I say, trying to go for my closet, but she intercepts me.

"No time. Get out of that shirt and put it on. You'll look great in it." I hesitate, and she whaps me across the face. "HOP TO, BRITA!"

I don't even try to argue with her. There are some things that simply aren't worth it.

The dress is so short that it barely covers my ass. Arabelle nods approvingly, as though this was her master plan all along, but it doesn't work on me. I am in no way beautiful. I suppose some guys might consider me cute, but their heads will never turn when I walk into a room. It doesn't bother me, but it definitely makes me feel dumb in this dress.

"Alright," says Arabelle, hurling a pair of my own black boots at my face. "Put these on. I think they'll match." I really don't have any time to resist, so I slip them on my feet. I'll trust Arabelle with the fashion decisions today.

"Time to go!" my friend sings, snagging my arm and dragging me out of the room. I can hear feet padding behind me, and then a sad whimper.

"Where are you going, Brita?" my little sister Pandora whines.

"Training center!" I tell her, as Arabelle drags me down the stairs. "I think… where _am _I going, Arabelle?"

"Training center," she affirms, continuing to drag me. We pass the kitchen, where my mother and father are sitting and drinking coffee. My mother looks a bit sad as she waves at me, but my father just chuckles. Still, I can tell that the two of them are worried. My grandpa died in the Hunger Games, and my mom doesn't want me to volunteer. I can't back out now, though. Besides, I know I'm going to win, or at least try my hardest. I won't let anyone beat me.

Once Arabelle gets me out the door, she breaks into a run and I have no choice but to follow her. We bolt through the streets of District Four, disturbing various citizens. When they realize who I am (if they know me) they stop glaring. They understand that the district's potential Victor has places to be.

The Training Center seems dark and imposing as Arabelle and I dash up the steps. The guard doesn't question us as we slam into the door and clatter inside the lobby. "Fjord is in the gym," Arabelle says, her voice hushed in response to the quiet interior of the Training Center. "I'll be heading to the reapings now, see ya later!"

"Thanks," I tell her, jogging towards the stairs. I make it up two flights and speed up, shouldering open the gym doors to spot Fjord and Kroy standing at the very center, both looking bored. Fjord is the head of the District Four Training Center, but he gets very one-on-one with a lot of the students here. When he sees me, he waves an arm, inviting me closer. All Kroy gives me is a sneer which I do my best to ignore.

"Glad you could make it, Brita," Fjord tells me as I jog up next to him. "I was just going over some last-minute advice with Kroy. Arabelle found you?"

"Yeah," I say.

Kroy is eyeing me, his green eyes gleaming. "Nice dress," he says, his tone suggesting that he does not think it is a nice dress.

I sigh. "Calm yourself," I tell him, waving my arm indifferently. "I'm not going to date you no matter how much you compliment me." His face contorts into a snarl but he can't do anything; Fjord is laughing his head off and it would look bad.

"Anyway," Fjord continues, finishing his chuckles. "You have to remember that the Careers aren't going to be a stable alliance the further in you go. You have to be thinking further along than that. Are you two going to team up after the Careers fall?"

Kroy barks a laugh. "Hell no," he says. Fjord turns to me, and I shrug.

"The lady said no," I exclaim. Fjord bursts out laughing again and Kroy looks like he wants to kill me. Sometimes I just can't help myself.

"Okay," Fjord says, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "The lady did say no—sorry, Kroy, it's funny—so I suppose the two of you will have to watch out for each other." He claps each of us on the shoulder. "Good luck, and don't be a stranger when you win. I know one of you will." He turns to exit the gym. Kroy stays unmoving, arms crossed over his chest. I start to move after Fjord, but he jabs a finger at me.

"Where do you think you're going? We haven't fought yet."

I frown. "Fought yet? What do you mean?" I hear the click of the gym door shutting behind Fjord. Kroy rolls his eyes.

"What do you think I mean? We never actually fought to see who was tougher."

"We both know who's tougher, judging from the fact that I'm _so _much taller and more muscly than you." I'm joking; I am nowhere near as tall as Fjord, and each of his muscles are bigger than kittens. Regardless, his face breaks into an ugly scowl and he takes a step towards me.

"I guess you didn't prepare," he says, and reaches behind one of the benches in the gym to reveal his signature set of grip blades. My heart begins to hammer; Kroy isn't playing around anymore. Apparently he means business. "Never mind," he says, abruptly circling so that his back is to the door. _Damn, he's trapped me. _"I'm ready."

Kroy lunges towards me, swinging the blades, and I don't even hesitate. I shoot backwards, turning quickly and making for the ascending rows of benches. I really don't have that much stamina, so if I want to stop Kroy from killing me (is that what he's trying to do?) I need to think of a plan.

I jog up the steps and stop with my hand against the wall. Kroy has not followed me, he's lurking down near the doors again. "What's wrong?" he calls, his voice carrying over the empty space. "Scared?

"Kroy!" I shout, to make him pay attention to me. I'm getting the inklings of a plan here. "What's wrong with you?!"

"If I take you out, the kid who gets reaped will go," he calls. "They'll be weaker than you, and this whole thing will be easier for me. I'll be the winner for sure."

_I need to get him up here. _"Wow," I laugh. "That's… that's really pathetic, Kroy."

"Pathetic?!"

"Yeah," I taunt. "Especially since you probably can't beat me now. You're just standing there; you probably can't even get me. Haha!" I waggle my fingers at him, and sure enough, his face purples with rage.

"Shut up!" he roars, lunging for the stairs. I swallow hard and ball my hands into fists. If I time this wrong, his blades will slice me… When he's halfway up the stairs, I move, launching myself into the air. It is only now that Kroy realizes my plan, although it is far too late for him. He slashes with his one of his blades and I feel it dig into my leg as I crash feet-first into his chest. He bellows in pain as he falls backwards and his head slams into the stairs. I somehow manage to keep my balances as he thuds down the stairs, landing on my feet as he crumples at the bottom. The back of his head is oozing blood, and I wince.

"Genius plan, attacking me," I say, heading towards the doors. The thrill of victory is still humming in my veins; all of my senses feel heightened. "I really commend you for it, Kroy."

If beating the other tributes in the Games is that easy, it won't even be as hard as I thought.

* * *

The sunlight dances in the reaping square, making each face seem like a dazzling moon. The District Four escort, Tasha Semi, flutters across the stage, talking quickly with Peacekeepers, the Mayor, and this year's mentors. As usual, there is a male and a female onstage. This year's female mentor is Jegli Toole. That one makes me wince; Jegli is generally regarded as a complete psycho who should be avoided at all costs. Just my luck that she would end up being my mentor, as I know for a fact the girl mentor usually mentors the girl tribute and vice versa.

Eventually, Tasha makes it to the microphone and waves unsteadily at the audience. As always, her skin is a deep blue to represent the waves of District Four. This year, she's added shimmering tattoos in the shapes of various sea animals that live around the district. The bulbous jellyfish on her collarbone is my personal favorite.

"Hi, District Four!" Tasha exclaims, and the crowd cheers. Seeming pleased, she clears her throat. "As always, I'd like to wish everyone here a happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor." Now that she has the entirely scripted lines out of the way, she seems more nervous. "Ah… reaping time, huh?" It is more of a formality than anything, everyone knows that, but she does have to reap _somebody. _She walks over to one of the glass balls and removes a slip of paper. "Will Moneta Finn please come forward?" She flushes suddenly. "This was the girl's reaping, by the way," she says. "And—are there any volunteers?"

This is my chance. "I'd like to volunteer," I call, stepping out of the crowd of sixteen year old girls around me. A cheer quickly starts, the sound swelling as I pick through my peers and emerge on the steps of the stage. Tasha hustles me over to the microphone. "What's your name, young lady? And why did you volunteer?"

"My name is Britomartis Mare," I say, "although I'd prefer it if you called me Brita. As for why I volunteered, I want to earn some extra money for my family."

"Really?" Tasha asks. "You don't _look _poor—I mean, that was so rude! I'm sorry." Blushing, she rushes towards the boy's bowl. "Our male tribute for the 173rd Games is Truce Relicc are there any volunteers," she gasps, so quickly that I barely make the words out.

_Kroy, _I think, and then I remember that the last time I saw him, he was lying in a heap in the gymnasium, not moving. _I guess somebody else will volunteer, _I think, but the surprised silence stretches on. There is movement from the 17 year old section, and a boy with incredibly pale skin comes stumbling out. His face is grim as he walks up the steps. "Hi!" Tasha says, her fake excitement fading at the expression on his face. "Umm… Truce Relicc, everyone," she stammers, and backs away from the microphone. Abruptly she turns and bolts off the stage. "I did awful!" I hear her shout.

I turn to look at Truce. "I guess we'll walk ourselves off the stage," I suggest.

He starts, as though he is surprised that I am talking to him. "What? Oh, yeah, right, good plan." He ducks his head. "I should've thought of that, stupid me." He chuckles softly before turning and bolting off the stage as quickly as Tasha.

I grin, bemused. _If the both of them are going to be this flighty, I'll probably never see either of them again, _I think, and follow Truce to the stairs.

* * *

It turns out that we don't get separate rooms for goodbyes and whatnot. The Justice Building's massive marble lobby serves as the place of goodbyes for both tributes. I suppose that visitors have to wait outside in the hot sun; that must be irritating.

My entire family has turned out to say goodbye to me. My mom immediately envelops me in a hug. "Oh, Brita," she says. "I'm going to miss you so much, lovey."

"No worries, mom," I say, hugging her back. "I'm going to take extra care not to die." I grin at her, and she smiles back, but the smile is tainted with worry.

My dad's hug is next. "Never thought my little girl would be making it to the big time," he says, flashing me his trademark grin. "Moon a camera for me, eh, Brita?"

"I'm sure the Capitol will love that."

"They actually probably would," my dad ponders. "Huh. If that isn't creepy." His smile turns down at the corners. "Just remember to stay safe, Brita. You've been training for a while now, so I'm sure you can handle this. Just… be careful."

"I'll be careful."

"Damn straight you'll be careful." This is my older brother Achilles speaking. "If you die, sis, I'll fucking kill you."

"Language!" my mother admonishes gently, while my father guffaws.

"Sorry," says Achilles, making a surly pout. "Just be careful, Brita. That's all I'm asking."

"I'll be careful, bro," I say. "You don't have to worry about me. Honest."

Pandora and Iris have crept up near my knees by this point. Pandora is seven and Iris is five, and I love them both unconditionally. "You have to stay safe, Brita!" Pandora exclaims, tugging on my hand. "Don't get hurt, 'kay?"

"'Kay."

Iris nods rapidly, her thumb finding its way into her mouth. "Don't die," she says softly. My littlest sister knows more than she lets on; she was smart enough to skip a grade in school. If I die on live television, she'll know exactly what's going on.

"I'll be fine," I reassure her. "I've been training for this, right?" Iris nods and clings to Pandora, who is still rattling on about how she'll miss me. God, she's a great kid.

"Time's up," a Peacekeeper interrupts, putting her hand on my mother's shoulder. "Miss Mare has several other visitors. I will have to ask you to leave now."

My family moves out with tears and goodbyes and good lucks, and my next visitor strides across the lobby. "Hey," Casey says, sitting down next to me. "I'm really happy for you, Brita."

"I'm glad." We both lean in for a long, sweet kiss. When I pull away, I notice that he's rummaging around in his pockets. "I got you a token!" he exclaims, pulling out a golden band. "Whenever you wear it, it'll remind the other tributes that you're taken." He grins widely. "You should tell Cicero that you got married the night before the reapings." Cicero is the official Hunger Games interviewer.

"I love it," I exclaim, slipping the ring on my finger. "The plan, I mean. The ring sucks."

"Ha, ha," Casey says, kissing me on the forehead. "You're just so funny, Brita darling. You should have your own show."

"The Brita Show: Where Brita Talks about Socks."

"Why socks?"

"Why not socks?" A Peacekeeper is walking towards us, and I realize it's probably Casey's time to go. "I'll be thinking about you," I promise.

Casey grins. "I'll be thinking about you too, love," he says, and we kiss one last time. He turns and leaves me with stars still in my eyes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, that will be the last time our lips ever touch.

Arabelle, Olive, Haidee and Kieran come to wish me good luck next. I chat with them like I always do and it almost feels like one of our usual get-togethers. They are my last visitors, and when they leave a Peacekeeper appears to escort me to the train.

I am not scared. I am nervous, yes, but not scared. I can handle this; I have promises I intend to keep, and dying will spoil everything. Besides, I'm Brita Mare, and if I know one thing, it's that Brita Mare never loses. Ever.

**Truce Relicc, 17**

**District Four**

The day of the reapings is supposed to be special. Basically everyone in District Four gets dressed up and heads to the reaping square itself. Once the deed is done and a boy and a girl (lucky, the district calls them) are reaped, everyone else heads to various parties that the richer residents of District Four get together. On reaping day, it doesn't matter if you're rich or poor: everybody celebrates.

And yet, on this morning before one of the happiest days we have, I don't find myself celebrating. For one thing, the children of District Four do not attend parties. They are made to go home and think about volunteering next year, or (in my case) to pray that they will never be reaped. The latter is unlikely; this is a Career district, and someone will always volunteer. But there is the half-buried fear that they will change their mind about it, or they won't make it to the reapings, and then… Well, then I'm basically dead.

Another problem with reaping day is that there is no work. For the past three months, I have been developing poison back at the labs. I'm a researcher, see, working at the hospital. The poison I am creating has been designed to be beautifully quick and painless. Its purpose is for Capitol pets that are no longer wanted by their flighty owners. I've designed it so that it will paralyze the animal almost instantly, so that the owner doesn't cry if it thrashes or barks or mewls or does whatever a dying animal does. The next part is supposed to make the death painless, but I don't think I've gotten that right yet. When I inject the lab rats with it, they freeze up like they're supposed to, but then their eyes roll and roll and I just know that it hurts. There are various numbing herbs that I want to try, but the hospital isn't open to researchers today and I simply have to sit here and eat my breakfast.

"Hey! Earth to Truce, you're falling asleep in your fruit."

"I wasn't," I protest mildly, shaking myself out of my daze and looking down. Dad got me fruit for breakfast today; he knows I am practically obsessed with it and today is special, remember? A day of celebration. Hah.

"Are ya gonna eat it, or should I?" Aubest asks. He is my brother and my best friend (maybe my only friend.) I don't talk much, and according to Aubest I am "awkward and always pissed-looking," so perhaps people don't really like being around me because of that. I don't mind; I'm not very good at talking to people anyway.

I raise my hands. "No, don't! You'll get sick, and I can't go get you insulin from the hospital today. I'm not sure if you're joking or not, but you should stop! Don't make me worry about you!"

"Geez, Truce," Aubest says. "I _was _joking. Relax, alright?"

"Sorry," I mutter, glancing down at my plate. The fruit glistens with juice and my stomach growls, but the natural reaping day fear shines through and I worry that if I eat now, I'll just throw it all up. Tentatively, I lift my fork and stab a slice of peach. Lifting it to my lips, the fork trembles slightly as I shut my eyes, chew, and swallow.

"See?" Aubest exclaims, leaning over the table to clap me on the shoulder. "That wasn't so bad."

I nod, my stomach still in knots. A fat cut of cantaloupe beckons me, and I take it in my hands. Juice runs down the skin of my forearms as I bring it to my mouth. This one takes longer to eat, but when I finish the nausea is less prominent and my nerves are beginning to subside. I will not be reaped. Even if I am reaped, someone will volunteer. I'll be fine.

I push away my plate and get to my feet. Aubest's eyes follow the movement, and abruptly he gets up as well. "Hey," he says. "Are you worried or something? You seem kinda worried."

I shrug, moving towards the living room. I have time to kill before the reapings, and there are several things I'd like to focus on. Our house is in one of the less prominent parts of District Four, which means there are plenty of weeds growing around it. Almost half of the weeds can be utilized in some way. I feel as though I might be able to make a real breakthrough today. Growing in the damp darkness underneath the steps of my house is a mushroom I've nicknamed Brownie. From what I know of it, it immediately induces tranquility and a sense of sweeping numbness in organisms that consume it. Perhaps if I give a large enough dose it can cancel the pain that the rest of my poison brings.

Aubest tags along as I step out the back door and hop into the grass below. I can already see several specimens of the Brownie clustering up against the wall as though they're trying to hide. Ruthlessly, I reach out and pull them forcibly from their home. The Brownies are perfectly safe to touch; it is only when consumed or ingested in some way that they cause their startling effects.

I return to the living room with Aubest still following me. He wrinkles his nose when I plop the mushrooms down on the table, spreading muddy dirt across its surface. "Watch the fruit, genius boy," he says. Ignoring him, I retrieve a knife from the counter and snag one of the mushrooms, pressing it down into the table. Gently, I slice the knife into the mushroom's cap, peeling off a thin sliver of organic matter. Gently, I lay it down on a clean portion of the table and am moving to get another sample when Aubest clears his throat.

"You've gotta go now," he says. "You don't want to be late, right?"

I nod, placing the knife next to the mushroom. I really have no reason to be so nervous, right? After all, there is no way I will be going to the Hunger Games. It simply wouldn't make sense.

I'm safe.

* * *

I am standing in the 17 year old section, looking at my peers. Most of them seem bored, knowing that they won't be going to the Hunger Games at all this year. Maybe next year is an option for at least one of them. I bunch my hands up nervously and look at the stage instead.

Standing onstage is Tasha Semi, our district's escort. She smiles and waves at the audience, her tattoos glimmering in the bright light. "Hi, District Four!" she calls. I find that my hands are frozen and that I can't clap or cheer, despite the fact that everyone else is doing it. "As always, I'd like to wish everyone here a happy Hunger Games!" she exclaims. "May the odds be ever in your favor." She pauses, looks nervous, and walks to one of the gigantic glass reaping balls, filled with hundreds of slips of paper each emblazoned with a single name. She reaches inside the ball and removes a slip, squinting as she reads the name. "Will Moneta Finn please come forward?" she calls, and then her blue face gets darker and I realize she is blushing. "This is the girl's reaping, by the way." She probably forgot to say that. "And—are there any volunteers?"

"I'd like to volunteer!" The voice comes from across the way, in the 16 section. A girl with long straight hair marches out of the crowd and up the steps. Her face is set in a confident smile, and if she is nervous, I can't tell from her expression. The crowd is cheering, and this time I manage to clap my hands a couple of times.

"What's your name, young lady?" Tasha asks. "And why did you volunteer?"

"My name is Britomartis Mare, although I'd prefer it if you called me Brita," the girl says. "As for why I volunteered, I want to earn some extra money for my family."

"Really? You don't look poor," Tasha exclaims. Her face brightens suddenly. "I mean, that was so rude! I'm sorry." Hurriedly, she zips over to the bowl that holds slips of paper with my name on them, among countless others. My palms have begun to sweat as she reaches inside, snags a slip, and tears it open.

"Our male tribute for the 173rd Games is Truce Relicc are there any volunteers." The words are so rushed that for a moment, I have no clue what it is she just said. And then the moment ends, and the realization hits me like a sword to the stomach. _Dear God, no… _

My first thought is that there will be a volunteer. There always is, so I don't see any reason that this year will be any different. The silence stretches on, and the square is silent. Heads are beginning to turn, to look at me with eyes filled with pity and confusion and annoyance. I can't wait any longer.

Mechanically, I begin the walk to the stage, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. Iron fills my mouth as I walk up the steps. Tasha smiles at me, waving her hand enthusiastically. "Hi!" I do not change my expression, and her face falls. "Umm…" she says awkwardly, fiddling with her hands and glancing at the crowd. "Truce Relicc, everyone!" With a gasp, she turns and darts away.

My mind goes almost immediately to the hospital: how will they finish the formula without my help? I had so many things I wanted to try… I feel as though they are lost to me now. Coming back home is the kind of dream I'm afraid to dream. I'm not giving up, but I'm not going to hope for something so unlikely. It just isn't rational.

"I guess we'll walk ourselves off the stage." My head jerks up and I am staring into the dull green eyes of Britomartis Mare. She looks to be a year younger than me, and although she isn't the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen, she's a girl and she's pretty and I'm afraid that if I say anything I'll ruin everything.

"What?" I blurt, without thinking at all, and then I have to resist the urge to smack my forehead. "Oh yeah, right, good plan." She is smiling in a sort of bemused way. _She thinks I'm a moron, just as I suspected. I can't look at her. _The floor seems safer to look at, so I stare at it intently. "I should've thought of that, stupid me." Abruptly I find my feet pulling me off the stage, away from the pretty girl and her quizzical smile.

If I can't handle a girl's smile, what's going to happen to me in the arena?

* * *

I haven't even gotten the chance to sit down before my older brother bursts into the room where he will give me his final farewell. As I anticipated, his face is red and his hands are balled into fists. "What the fuck was that?" he yells, gesturing behind him in the rough direction of the reaping square. "How the fuck did Kroy not volunteer? He wouldn't shut his fucking mouth about it!" Aubest slams his fist into the wall, tremors taking over his entire frame. "God _damn _it."

"Don't yell," I say, more out of habit than anything else. "It's alright." It isn't really, but what else can I say? Incenting him to further rage is pointless and will just hurt us both, in the end.

He looks at me and his cheeks are ruddy. "What do you want me to do? Cry?" He clenches his eyes shut and he _is _crying, hot tears trickling down his cheeks. "How did this happen?" he whispers, hands clutching at the air. "How?"

I sigh. There's no way for me to answer that question. "Aubest," I exclaim. "Your insulin—I'm not going to be able to get it now."

He nods. "I know," he says, wiping his tears away roughly. "Damn it, Truce, don't worry about that! I'll break in myself if I have to."

It is a fool thing to do, but it is more foolish to let my brother die from lack of insulin. Reaching into my pocket, I produce the hospital key. Shakily, I toss it to my brother. His eyes track its progress and for a moment I think he will let it fall, but then he snatches it out of the air. "Use that to get in," I say. "Only go at night, there aren't as many people around. I have the extra lab coats at home; just put one on and act official. Get as much insulin as you can and get out as fast as you can." I am shaking. "You can't die too, Aubest," I say. "You have to survive. For me, you have to. For dad, too."

I don't know why I mentioned dad. He isn't even here. He probably didn't realize that I was reaped. I know he doesn't come to the reapings. No doubt he's still curled up in bed, asleep, totally unaware that his youngest son is being sent to his doom.

Aubest's face darkens. "I have to live for that fucker?" He whirls on me. "God damn it, Truce, you're the only real family I've got left! You die in there and I will kill you, got it?" He grabs me suddenly, his hug so rib-crushing that I gasp for air. "You can do it," he says into my ear. "I believe in you."

"Thanks," I wheeze, and he lets me go. His eyes are still cold, and I am thinking about rebuking him. Ever since our mother left, our dad has stopped caring and my brother has started to hate him. By now, the hate will surely explode into something bad. If I'm not there, I don't know what will happen, and that frightens me.

Aubest's eyes are raw as he moves away. "I love you, little brother," he says. "Stay strong and don't pussy out. You can win."

His last words to me hang in the air long after he's departed. _I can win? I hope so, brother. I hope so._

* * *

**I just wanted to tell you guys how epic your drabbles were. I loved them all! From snake mutts to President Snows to evil tributes, you all made me so happy. I enjoyed reading every single one! Thanks for sending them to me! I would post them here, but that would end up making this chapter way too long... so you'll just have to imagine the awesomeness. I have faith in you guys.**

**JAYFISHY QUESTION TIME~**

**#005: Which non-tribute character do you like the best from this chapter? (By this, I mean friends of the tribute, mentors, escorts, etc.)**

**#006: Which of these tributes would you most likely befriend?**


	4. The Reapings: Districts Five and Six

**Oh... Dear... God.**

**I UPDATED!**

**Here's the bit where I tell you that I am never, ever going to abandon this story. I am so sorry that it took so long for this to happen. School started and I was hyper-stressed by the idea of getting a chapter out as much as possible, so I kind of stopped writing for a bit. But now I'm back with some more realistic updating goals, and I'm going to do my best to not take such a long break again.**

**Yes, if you want you can throw virtual knives at me. I deserve it.**

**Also: the wonderful fantastic AMAZING PowerPlayer has made fanart for this fic! To see a picture of the lovely Vanity Sheffield, kindly look up "Vanity Sheffield" on DeviantArt, and please leave a comment. His work is so good and really deserves some praise!**

**Enough of me. Here's the chapter!**

* * *

**Venus DiMonte, 16**

**District Five**

There is a house, on the hill, with big shutters and closed curtains. The place holds an air of majesty, of I'm-so-much-better-than-you, and I'm looking forward to breaking it.

It is the day of the reapings (I'm well aware of the fact.) The large family that usually resides in the house will have dispersed. There should be no one inside at all, and I'm going to capitalize on the fact. Those people in that house, they've got oodles of money that they don't need and I'm going to relieve them of some of it. Hell, if I can get my paws on all of it, I'll take everything they've got. They've lived like kings for long enough; it's time to spread the damn love.

I slink towards the house, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground. People in this district, they know me. Most of them don't like me, generally because I can't keep a boy for more than a couple nights. I suppose I've broken a decent amount of hearts. I honestly can't help myself, though. There's the thrill of the hunt, when I choose a boy I want and work to make him mine. There's the passion and lust that comes when I spend a night with him. And then there's boredom. I don't care how good he is in bed; the same boy doesn't appeal to me twice. There's no thrill, no passion. I have to move on.

I think I read somewhere that it was called "nymphomania," sex addiction. The clinical name makes it sound creepy and awkward. "Sex addiction," on the other hand, sounds a lot more like me. I can last without sex for a while, but the itch comes back, it always comes back. See, it isn't even addiction so much as this craving to find something. Hell, I don't even know what it is, but none of the boy's I've fucked as of now have got it. Until I find it, I find that one boy that's got it, I'll keep on hunting.

I am now at the door of the house. This is the Victor's Village, and as such practically no one is out and about. It isn't like District Five doesn't have any Victors, because we do. Last time I checked, we had around 15 Victors or something. I don't know the exact number. The real reason there's nobody around is because the Victors can't handle it. They don't have to go to the reapings unless they're mentoring; as such, they hide in their pretty houses until the day is over.

The day has barely begun, but at least _I'm _doing something productive.

The back door, as I am well aware, has the kind of pathetic lock that is a breeze to pick. I think the McGee family assumes that since their precious daddy is a Victor, they don't have to worry about anything. That's a dumbass assumption and it's going to cost them today.

My black bangs have been secured against the rest of my hair with hair pins. The pins have nothing to do with vanity; I wore them with a specific purpose in mind. I pluck one out of my hair and turn to the lock, biting my full bottom lip. Carefully inserting the pin into the lock, I close my eyes and let my instincts take over. A little to the left, a smidgeon to the right… There is a soft clunk, and I push the door open with a shoulder. It never was a complicated lock.

The house is dark and quiet, just as I suspected. As I step past several pegs for coats, I have to stop and take in the fact that the fur coats alone could feed me for a week or more. I can't take all of them, but one I can manage. I reach out and pluck a heavy black one from its place, slipping into it. The fur tickles my bare skin and I know I will look odd considering the heat, but people have learned not to question my ways because they'll never get the truth out of me if they try.

I head into a large room containing a massive oaken stairway. Frowning in disapproval at the paintings on the wall, I head towards the stairs and make my way up. There probably isn't anything of value in the kitchen and sitting room. I have made it to the top of the steps when I stop dead. The room directly across from me is lit up, light spilling from the crack underneath the door. As I listen, the sound of a drawer sliding shut can clearly be heard.

The thing is, I didn't come unprepared. I never do, because that would be severely lax and stupid of me. Reaching underneath my new coat, my questing fingers find the space in between my breasts and close around warm metal. It is a small gun, easily hidden in my cleavage. I know I'm not authorized to have it, and somehow I don't think my stepfather was authorized either.

I have a history with this little piece of metal. The first time I ever saw it was when my stepdad decided that beating me wasn't going to be enough for him. You know what ended up hurting a lot more than a kick to the shin? A bullet to the wrist. Hell, I'd thought my hand was going to fall off then and there. It didn't. Electron had brought me directly to the hospital, warning me to tell no one. I didn't.

The second time I met with the gun was when I stole it from Electron's open hand. He was snoring on the couch and I just took it and then I curled his own fingers around it and put it in his mouth. When my mother found him with his head blown open and the gun resting in his hand, she assumed it was a suicide. Everybody did.

I didn't go to his funeral.

I am not a stranger to murder. I've done it once and there is nothing stopping me from opening that door, shooting the brains out of whoever is behind it, and getting some more loot. But I'm not going to do that. It seems unnecessary, especially since I'm already punishing this family. A death just makes the whole thing overkill.

I press my back against the wall to the left of the door and raise my gun, pointing it at a window. My finger curls around the trigger and there is a tremendous bang. I'm used to the sound. The person inside that room, they definitely aren't.

Just as I anticipated, the door bangs open. I move fluidly, slamming my gun down. There is a sharp crack and I watch as a girl with raven hair (so similar to my own) crumples to the ground. I realize that I recognize that angelic face, and my self-satisfied smile turns into a sneer. Joan McGee is not a nice girl. She's in my math class at school, and practically every time she sees me she makes some comment about "District Five's resident slut." I object _very _much to that term. Slut? No. Sex maniac? Better.

Well, she's unconscious now, unable to go to the reapings. If I were any kind of good person, I'd probably drag her along with me. As I am not a good person, I move around her and into her room. A quick scan shows a fancy telephone that will get enough at the local pawnshop. I stuff it into my sack after tipping her whole jewelry box into one of the pockets of my new coat.

Joan is still unconscious on the floor. I step over her and move to the parent's bedroom. Just for fun, I open one of the drawers and pull out a pair of lacy underwear. _Naughty, _I think, chuckling quietly to myself. The mother has more jewelry than Joan, even, and it all goes into the sack. I'm thinking of raiding the kitchen next, when I happen to glance at the clock hanging on the wall.

Well _shit. _If I don't hurry up, Joan isn't going to be the only one who misses the reapings. With an irritated sigh, I pull at the top of my dress and stuff the gun back into safety. Once the metal is safely tucked away inside my cleavage, I'm ready to go. I dart out of the master bedroom. Joan is still crumpled on the floor. She might have moved and made a little sigh. It doesn't matter; I don't really care what happens to Joan McGee. If she gets arrested for this, all the better. That bitch deserves it.

I move down the stairs and make it to the back door. Impulsively, I decide to leave it hanging open on my way out. They'll know that someone broke in. The idea of them knowing that it happened (but not who did it) tickles me with mirth. They all think I'm just a worthless, heartbreaking whore, and all along I've been breaking into a lot more than hearts.

It gets funnier the more you think about it.

* * *

As usual, there are grim predictions coming from all quarters, as frightened teens try to figure out their odds. I stopped doing that a long time ago. If I get picked, I get picked. There are at least a thousand other kids here, who may or may not have gotten tesserae (I did, every year until I turned 15.) There are too many variables for it to be worth it. I really don't understand my peers sometimes.

The other 16 year old girls are wary of me as I stand among them. I'm sure I've had sex with at least some of their boyfriends before, and I'm sure that some of them hate me for it. It doesn't matter to me. It's hardly my fault if their boyfriends are attracted to me, if they want to bed me. Besides, my addiction makes it difficult for me to say no. They can't really blame me, can they?

A lot of them do, all the same. Again, it doesn't matter what they think. I do what I like; I always have, and I always will. That won't change, not ever.

When the escort finally takes the stage, my boredom has reached a point where I can feel my legs twitching and the gun against my skin has begun to itch. I need some kind of distraction, and our lovely escort should be just distracting enough. Moribund Tasslefur has always been fascinating to observe. He seems like a normal, impish young man, except for the slim metal rod through his head. No one knows the full story, but I'm pretty sure it isn't just a fashion statement. It goes through his brain, after all.

"Hello, District Five!" says Moribund, glancing out over the crowd. "Welcome to the 173rd Hunger Games!" When there are no cheers, he looks a bit put out and confused, his mouth hanging open. Resolutely, he shuts it with a clack. "I suppose it's supposed to be ladies first, right?" When no one answers, he looks a bit disappointed again. Then, with a shrug, he moves over to one of the reaping bowls and pulls out a slip of paper. I feel a coil of anticipation in my gut. _I don't think it's me, why would it be me?_

"Will a Venus DiMonte please come forward?" Moribund calls.

I breathe in sharply, balling my hands into fists. The instinct to run is overpowering, but as I turn I can see faces turned towards me, some with little smirks. If I try to run, I won't get far. District Five wants me gone; they'll be glad to see the end of me.

The betrayal hurts, in a weird way. I knew that they hated me, and yet… Maybe one of the boys can do something? But when I look their way, all of them seem to be extremely preoccupied in their shoes, or the cloudless sky.

Someone pushes me. I stumble forward with a tiny cry, and the crowd parts before me, giving me a perfect pathway towards the stage. District Five is silent as I march towards the certain death they know is waiting for me.

Moribund smiles at me when I stand next to him. It's a smile completely devoid of emotion, and a smile I am unused to. Most men give me smiles with hidden undercurrents of lust and desire, and I generally return those smiles. Moribund's empty-headed grin irritates me.

"Are there any volunteers for Venus?" he calls, looking out at the sea of people. There is silence, and then, from the girls, a clap. Another rings forth, and in less time than I like, the entire 16 year old section is clapping and cheering. The 17 and 18 year olds are soon whistling and cheering as well. I can even see some of my jilted one night stands catcalling and pumping their fists.

Something inside me breaks a little bit.

Moribund frowns. "Why are they doing this?" he asks me, turning away from the microphone so the words won't be picked up.

Despite the pain tearing at my insides, I'm able to answer. "They hate me."

"Oh." He turns back to the crowd. "And now for the males!" That shuts everyone up.

I'm barely watching as he selects a name from the male bowl. He wanders back to the microphone and unfurls the slip. "Marco Sykora!"

Oh. _Him._

I know Marco Sykora because I was once intimately involved with the lock on his back door. He's one of the elite of District Five, one of the rich. I doubt he's ever gone hungry a day in his life. Even after I stole a shitload of cash from his house, he was still richer than practically everyone in the district.

He steps out from the crowd, terror written all over his face. _So he's a bad actor, good to know. _The terror on his face gradually melts away, though, as he walks up the steps and comes to a stop next to Moribund. It's obvious that he's still frightened, but the eyes of the district are on him and it seems as though he doesn't want to look like a pussy. Commendable, I suppose.

Moribund asks for volunteers, and there are none, predictably. It is extremely rare for District Five to have a volunteer.

"Alright, tributes," says Moribund. "Shake hands." Sighing internally, I turn to Marco and extend my hand. It's obvious that he doesn't recognize me (why would he, rich boy?) because he only seems nervous as he shakes my hand. Not straight-out horrified, or intensely awkward, as he probably would be if he'd been one of my lays.

Our hands meet and I make a tactical decision. Do I want to ally with Marco Sykora? I'm honestly not ready to think that far into the future, but I don't think I want him as an ally. But how could it hurt to make him my friend, or at least to make him feel bad about hurting me? I smile tragically as I take his hand, but add a flirtatious wink. There. Let him figure _that _one out.

As I pull back, I feel the blind panic beginning to subside. I don't want to do this, but maybe I can_. _I'm sure as hell not going to give up. Maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to drag me to the finish line.

* * *

District Five has the world's ugliest Justice Building. It's practically a hut. As such, tributes say their goodbyes in the Minefield, an inappropriately-named field that is totally devoid of mines. Apparently there were mines all over the place during the Dark Days, but the blackened grass has grown back now. I am practically surrounded by Peacekeepers as the one person I don't want to see comes crashing through their ranks to say goodbye.

Mother dearest. There's a _reason _I stay in the alleys. Even from here I can smell the foul fumes emanating from her person. Fucking alcohol. We were poor enough as it was, but she turned to the drink after her second husband turned out to be the world's biggest shithead. Yes, he beat her. Yes, he raped her. But he did… well, he did the same shitty kind of stuff to me, and you don't see me drinking.

Fucking like a rabbit, that's how I block this kind of stuff out.

"Venus," Carina sniffles. She's drunk. Disgust crawls over me, and I wrap my arms across my chest. Icy cold blossoms against my skin, and I remember a detail that I'd previously forgotten. _Fucking shit. The gun. _It remains where I stashed it, squashed in between my breasts. My heart begins to pound. _I can work with this._

My mother crashes into me, ramming my body against hers. She's sobbing into my red hair, and I wriggle frantically, doing my best to extricate myself from her person. It isn't working, and she only hugs me harder. "Let _go _of me," I hiss, trying to come up with the right words. "Fucking drunk. Let me go!"

She pulls away, teardrops glistening on her cheeks. "Venus," she whispers. She doesn't look more upset than she did before, she probably didn't even register my words. "My baby girl." A hiccup racks her frame. "Please, sweetie. Please win."

"I'm not going to win," I tell her. Do I really think this? Well, sort of. But I want her to feel what I've been feeling, all my fucking life. Utter, total hopelessness. "I'm going to die, and you know what? Maybe if you'd been a better mom and been with me more, I could've died loving you. But I'll die _hating _you instead." The words are like acid, corroding my tongue and teeth.

She stands, rocking backwards from the force of my words. "Venus…"

I want to slap her. But I don't. I turn away, trying to forget how pathetic she looks, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Get out of here," I say, my voice half its normal volume. "I don't want to see you again."

I don't look back until I'm positive that she's gone. I expect to feel some kind of vindictive relief, some kind of peace with myself, but I don't. All I feel is my heart pounding against my ribs, and the rhythm of the gun against my skin.

_Thump-thump_

_ Thump-thump_

_ Thump-thump_

**Marco Sykora, 16**

**District Five**

Running.

There's something really relaxing about getting out of the lab for a change. My arms, currently trembling with exertion, get a chance to stretch. I can actually _move, _which is something I don't have much cause to do in the lab. I find that the sweat collecting on my skin is kind of nice. It cools me off and makes me feel as though I'm actually taking care of my body.

It's harder than one might think, staying in shape. My parents, both chemists, really bring home the bacon—real, actual bacon, and other delicious foods beside. It's all I can do to stay fit, what with the chocolate and toffee floating around in the house. But the younger kids love it, so I'm not about to ban the stuff.

Thinking about my little siblings brings a smile to my face, for once. No work on reaping day, so my parents are at home taking care of the kids. Normally _I'm _the one who has to do it. I'm not about to refuse my parents, but it gets a little old, coming home after school to watch the kids until it's time to sleep. Kind of makes me feel like I'm the parent.

But hey, today's my day, right? I finally get a chance to just run, to lose myself in the pounding of my own heart. It isn't the nicest day, and District Five always smells vaguely like ozone, but I breathe in the air and try to imagine that it's fresh and clean.

I come to a stop beside the chain-link fence that separates me from the electrical mess ahead. I don't quite understand the nature of the wires, or what would happen if I touched one, but I doubt it would be pretty. This is as far as I can go. Our district is surrounded by this fence, and the jumble of wires beyond. It's an impossible labyrinth. I was told that in the Dark Days, it protected our district from ground forces, but when the Capitol began bombing, there was no way for anyone to escape.

I shake the dark thoughts away. Turning, I begin to run again. I can hear the electrical hum coming from the wires above me, but somehow I can ignore it. It's a sound that makes me tense and nervous, anxious even. I imagine that being zapped by one of those wires is the most painful experience a person can have.

Well. Maybe being ripped apart by mutts would be worse. Hopefully I won't have to deal with either of those things.

I'm almost away from the electrical district when I see it. Of _course _I see it, it's right there and it's bright green. I have no clue what kind of liquid that is. What I _do _know is that I'd be a disgrace to all aspiring chemists if I didn't just have a poke around.

Of course, it's heavily guarded. The liquid is pooling around one of the wire towers, and fallen wires jitter and dance all around it. _It's a maze, _I think, and try to map out a path with my eyes. Now I'm quite certain that I'm making a very big mistake, but I can't just _leave _it. I have a glass vial in my pocket for situations just like this. All I need is a tiny sample that I can examine after the reapings. I'll just be careful, that's all.

I take a step, heart hammering in my throat. None of the wires have touched me, but I'm not really close to them yet. A gap between the sparking conduits presents itself, and I take a deep breath and twist through, somehow managing to avoid connection with any of the wires. _Alright, _I think, heart rate slowing. _This is alright. This isn't so bad._

The next wires are high enough that I can drop to the ground and crawl under them. Dirt smears over my cheek, and I imagine that my clothes are filthy. _I'll have to change before the reapings, _I think._ It's a good thing I didn't wear anything nice._

The final set of wires requires a jump. I grimace, moving backwards in preparation. I swallow hard and rocket forward, drawing my legs practically up to my chest as I clear the wires.

But I've misjudged my jump. It's too much. I stagger towards another set of wires, and manage to dig my feet into the ground. Now gravity is pulling me sideways, directly towards the green fluid. I throw out my hands in order to arrest my fall, and one of them lands directly in the fluid.

For a moment, nothing. Then, intense, searing pain. I shriek, pulling out of the fluid. My skin is bright red and _bubbling. _I shake my hands desperately, trying to get the remainder of the liquid off. Stray droplets sprinkle onto my jacket and begin to eat away at the fabric.

By the time blood begins to boil to the surface, I'm in a complete panic. I'm staggering towards the wires with both hands outstretched, only conscious of the incredible pain in my hand. I'm close enough to grab one wire in my palm when an incredible force slams into the back of my skull.

_This was a _really _dumb idea, _I think, and go under.

* * *

The first thing I'm aware of when I open my eyes is that there's a girl on my chest.

She's maybe 20, and covered in grime. She holds a wrench in one hand and does not look particularly pleased with me. "Rise and shine, you stupid fuck," she says, grabbing my arm. I blink dazedly as she waves my hand in my face. It's covered in sterile white bandages.

"Did you disinfect?" I blurt. It's the first thing that comes to my mind. "I'm a chemist, you know. I know about these things. You should _definitely _have disinfected it…" I trail off under her harsh stare.

"So _that's _why you were bumbling after that stuff?" she asks. "Let me give you a heads up, genius. That was _acid _you were going after. Never seen acid before?" She lets out a bark of laughter. "Some chemist."

I'm a bit offended, but I try to ignore it. Instead, I offer her a dazzling smile. "I'm Marco—_aggh." _The pain from my hand has returned with an incredible force.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Aggh," she says, rolling her eyes. "The name's Lincoln."

"Well," I say, through gritted teeth. "Thank… you… for… saving… me."

"Funny story," says Lincoln. "I was up fiddling with wires, minding my own business, when what do I see? Some _moron _falling in a puddle of acid!" She bares her disturbingly pointy teeth in a grin. "You were going to grab the wires, too," she adds. "So I brained you with my wrench." She waves it in the air for emphasis.

I glance around myself. It looks like we're in some kind of break room, maybe for the wire workers. _They probably keep spare supplies here, in case of injury, _I think. _That's how she got the bandages._

"So… _did _you disinfect?" I manage.

She gives me a deadpan glare. "Nope. Not about to waste good disinfectant on a fuck-up like you." She takes in my miserable state and sighs. "We've got some extra morphling pills, though," she says. "Nobody wants to get addicted to them, so we don't use them. But _you _might want them."

I really don't. Morphling is terribly addictive and as a chemist I shouldn't be addicted to these kinds of things. But the only sound I can make is a muted groan, so I'm in no position to refuse when Lincoln discovers a pill and pops it into my mouth. It takes a while, but the pain in my hand subsides as suddenly as it came.

"Ahhh," I breathe. "_Thank _you." I flex my fingers, which hurts, so I stop.

She just looks at me. "Reapings are going to start soon," she says simply. "We should get going."

I manage to stumble to my feet, using a wooden chair as a crutch. "I really do appreciate this," I ramble. "My family is fairly well off and if you want to be compensated, I'm sure we can work something out."

She stops dead, raising her eyebrows. "Compensated? So you're a rich bitch, huh?" She gives a chuckle. "Nah, I don't want your money."

"Are you sure?" I continue. "I mean, you really helped me…"

Now she just seems pissed. "I told you, I don't want anything." She pokes me in the back with her wrench. "Now walk, my young friend. We have to get going."

_Friend, _I think, and am seized with a sudden happiness. I don't have a wealth of friends. I think people consider me narcissistic, or something. Maybe they're just jealous that my family is rich. I really do my best to make friends, but not many people take me up on the offer.

But Lincoln, the semi-frightening wire worker, just said that I was her friend. Could I have a friend at last?

"Friend?" I ask, hopeful. "You really consider me a friend?"`

She blinks. "It's just an expression, dumbass," she says. But when she notices my crestfallen state, she sighs. "You know what, fine. I don't have that many friends. Maybe having a rich boy as a pal will help me out." She grins in a lopsided way. "Seriously, now. _Walk."_

I walk, feeling lighter than air. _A friend. A real friend. _

It takes no time at all to reach the reaping square. Lincoln vanishes into the crowd, leaving me to make my way to my place alone. The Mayor has almost finished with his speech, and now the escort takes the stage. Moribund, the man with the pole through his head. It's kind of disturbing.

It goes through his brain, I notice. I don't know exactly what part, but _surely _it must affect him in some way. Perhaps it regulates some kind of emotion, or memory problem. If he has obsessive-compulsive disorder, it might regulate _that._ I'm not an expert on the human brain, so I don't really know.

"Hello, District Five!" says Moribund. "Welcome to the 173rd Hunger Games! I suppose it's supposed to be ladies first, right?" He crosses to one of the bowls and reaches inside, unfolding the slip and calling the name to the audience. "Will a Venus DiMonte please come forth?"

She slinks out of the female sixteen section, a scowl planted on her face. As she reaches the stage, a girl begins to clap, and then another. The boy next to me catcalls. Soon, the whole audience is wolf whistling and cheering. I don't know why, but it seems as though this Venus is pretty much despised.

Moribund calls for volunteers, but can barely be heard over the roar of the audience. Eventually he gives up. "And now for the males!" Instantly, the crowd is quiet.

My palms are covered in a thin layer of sweat. _But it won't be me, _I think, because the idea's ridiculous. _I suppose it could be me, but really. What are the chances?_

"Marco Sykora!"

_What._

Terror drags my lips down into a hideous grimace. The crowd parts before me like water, and I tremble as I move forward. My wounded hand begins to ache and I jam it into my pocket. _Shit, _I think. _I'm going to have to deal with that in the arena! Shit!_

Everyone's watching. I force myself to calm down and try to adopt a placid expression. As I move up the stairs, Venus watches me like a hawk.

As soon as I stop moving, Moribund has us shaking hands. When I turn to Venus, she offers me a smile and a wink. _Does she want to be friends too? _I think, and wonder why everyone seems to hate her so much.

As I look back over the crowd that is District Five, the fear returns and I try not to let it show. _I can't die, _I think, but the problem is that I can and I probably will.

_No. Don't think like that. It isn't going to happen._

_ Please, don't let me die._

* * *

The Minefield is a ridiculous name for a field that doesn't have mines in it. The name _used _to be appropriate, but now it just makes the empty field seem scarier than it really is. Still, I'm terrified as I stand with my arms folded across my chest, waiting for my family.

The first thing I see is my 10 year old sister, Ally. She's running through the crowd of Peacekeepers with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Marco! Marco!" she cries, and hugs me around the middle.

Her twin sister Sophie comes up behind her, looking equally horrified. "Mommy and Daddy said you were going away for a really long time!" she wails. "And that you might never come back!"

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I exclaim. My hand is really throbbing now, and the combination of the pain and the horror of the whole situation sends me over the edge. I'm crying, really crying, tears streaming down my face. "I'm sorry," I whimper, clutching Ally to my chest.

I barely notice as my youngest sibling Harley wraps himself around my legs. He probably doesn't even understand what's going on, but everyone is crying and he knows it's a time to be upset. My parents finally emerge from the crowd of Peacekeepers, looking worn and haggard. Their faces are pinched as they hug me tight, promising that everything will be okay.

We all know just how wrong they are.

My siblings resist furiously as the Peacekeepers pull them away. "Marco!" Ally screams. "Noo!" Even as they are pulled away, I can hear them whimpering and crying.

There can't be anyone else, can there? But as I think it, a slim figure emerges from the crowd. Lincoln is still holding her wrench in one hand. She is white-faced, clearly stunned. "Hey," she says. "Looks like I should've let you compensate me after all."

I'm pretty sure it's a joke, but I'm still crying and not in the mood to hear it. After a moment, Lincoln sidles next to me and awkwardly pats me on the shoulder. "Hey," she says. "I brought you some more morphling pills. Everything I could scrounge up."

"I don't…"

She moves viciously, jamming a pill between my teeth before I can protest further. I swallow reflexively and glare at her as she drops the pill bottle in my hand. "The pills aren't so addictive," she says. "I suggest you save as many as you can for the night before the arena. That hand isn't going to stop hurting for at least a month."

The fact that I probably won't live to see next month is horribly disturbing.

"I can't believe this," I babble. "I'm just—I didn't _think…" _

She shrugs. "You just had shitty luck, Marco," she exclaims. "Some people do." Before I can react, she presses her lips against my forehead in a weirdly platonic gesture. "Good luck, kid," she says. "I'll be rooting for you. Maybe if I try I can get the other workers to scrounge up some sponsor stuff."

"That would be good," I say immediately. "Chemicals would be nice. I can work with those."

She eyes my hand skeptically but only says "we'll see." As she melts back into the mess of Peacekeepers, she nods at me and her eyes flare.

_A friend, _I think. _On the day I die, I finally make a friend._

The universe, it seems, really hates me.

**Foy Janssen, 18**

**District Six**

"It's only tea," says my mother, smoothing my white-blonde hair. "Won't it be nice, seeing Elise again?"

"Of course it will be," I answer smoothly. "I'm only worried about her feelings, not mine."

"Elise is a _lovely _girl," my mother insists. "Very polite. I'm sure she doesn't resent you for your decision."

My mother is a lovely woman. Caring, gentle, perfectly sweet. And she's absolutely determined that Elise and I are a match made in heaven. Maybe we are. I must admit that I find Elise an incredible woman. But…

She has secrets, secrets that I never mentioned to my mother. And those secrets are why I suggested a break.

But it is the day before my final reaping, and my mother is so sure that I won't be reaped that she has decided it is time to rekindle my relationship with Elise. I'm excited about seeing her again. I loved Elise… maybe I still love her. It's hard, though, now that I know things about her that I never really wanted to know.

We're meeting in the garden behind her house, where her parents can keep a close eye on us. I pull on my white leather jacket and lean over to kiss my mother on the cheek. "I'm sure things will work out," I promise, even though I'm not sure of any such thing. "I'll see you when I get back."

"Tell Elise I said hello!" she calls, as I leave the house. I wave over my shoulder, but I'm walking as quickly as I can. Maybe I'm more excited to see her again than I thought…

I've been to her house so many times that I walk the route without even thinking about it. When the bushes in her front garden come into view, I slow my pace so as not to look overbearing. This section of District Six, the sector designated for the rich, is filled with gossips.

The door opens a few minutes after I knock. Our eyes meet and I'm staring into the most gorgeous doe eyes I'll ever hope to see. Elise is wearing a stunning dress, but I hardly care about that. It wasn't her looks I fell in love with. It wasn't her looks that made me suggest the break, either.

She's much more dangerous than she appears.

I extend my hand, and she places hers in my palm. I bring it to my mouth and kiss it, right on the knuckle of her middle finger. "It's good to see you again, Elise," I say. I'm not lying. I feel profoundly uncomfortable, well aware of the fact that our status is no longer what it was, but it still feels wonderful to look at her.

She smiles. "I've missed you, Foy," she says. I wonder if it's for the sake of politeness or if she really has missed me. "Come," she suggests. "Let's go to the garden. Tea's ready."

As I follow her through the house, I reminisce on the details of our relationship. The most we've done is kiss, but even that seems like more than I'll ever have with her again. _I _broke off the relationship, so how can I rekindle it now?

Maybe this meeting was doomed from the start. But my parents wanted it, and her father wanted it, and neither of us was about to disagree.

The little table in the garden is loaded with tiny sandwiches and an elegant kettle. I sit down in one of the chairs and Elise settles herself in the other. Her dress folds around her ankles, hiding her plain white boots from view.

I wait until she's served herself before placing a sandwich on my plate and pouring some tea into my cup. We're silent as we eat, but when the food is gone we've got no excuses. "How have you been?" I ask politely, moving the kettle so it doesn't block her face from mine.

She moves her long blonde hair out of her icy eyes and forces a smile. "Well," she says. "Yourself?"

I feel slightly ill. "Well," I manage.

We can both feel it, the tension in the air. Neither of us wants to be the one who points it out. It's finally Elise who has the courage to do just that. "I'm still fighting," she says, softly.

There it is, then. The downfall to our relationship. My mind flashes back to when she told me about it. Underground battles in the poor areas of the district are an excellent way for those of lesser means to gain money and status. When Elise told me that she was an active participant, I was shocked and disturbed. I believe myself a firm pacifist, and the idea that she was fighting not for fame or money but for the pleasure of it horrified me. It still does.

"And I still hate it," I whisper. I manage to smile. "And I still… care about you."

"I care about you too." She reaches across the table and grips my hand. "Let's pretend that nothing happened," she whispers desperately. "Just for one day. It would make my father so happy… it would make me very happy too."

Maybe it's foolish to play a game like this for a single day. But it's Elise, and like usual I can't say no to her. I swallow hard. "Alright," I say, and I squeeze her hand and close my eyes. "Just for one day."

It feels better than anything I've done for a long time.

* * *

A day later, and I'm still thinking about it.

We had cookies and scones and talked late into the night. When she escorted me to the door, I leaned in and pressed my lips against her cheek, and she closed her eyes and practically hummed.

I've woken with just enough time to prepare for the reapings. Mother has laid out a crisp jacket for me, and neat pants and shoes. I pull them on and smooth them down before turning to the mirror and smoothing my hair back. Mother says that it looks like the fluff on a baby duck, and I have to agree with her.

Judging from the clock, there's no time to eat. I hurry down the stairs and my father tosses me a muffin. "Time to get going, son," he says, in that voice that Capitol women swoon for. My father, through a series of genius moves and a lot of luck, is a popular actor in several Capitol films. It's one of the reasons the Janssen family is one of the richest in District Six.

I walk myself to the reaping square. It's a hot, bright day, and the black outfit I'm wearing is going to be exceedingly uncomfortable in an hour or so. It will probably take the Mayor that long to finish her speech, too.

The square is only partially filled when I make my way to my place. I amuse myself by glancing at the sixteen girl's section from time to time. True to her character, Elise is early. She's chatting to Jaela, a mutual friend of ours. When they see me looking, they wave. I wave back with a smile.

It takes a while, but the entire population of District Six manages to get itself to the square. The Mayor's speech is long and somewhat tedious, but I suffer through it in silence and do my best to pay attention. It is the arrival of the escort that really catches the audience's attention. I am fairly sure that Epsilon Makati is a woman, but there are those who would dispute me. After all, her bulging muscles and square jaw are rather manly. Her skin this year is the color of a blueberry, and the strip of cloth covering her gigantic breasts is so small that I'm embarrassed to look at her.

"District Six," she growls into the microphone. "Prepare yourselves for the 173RD GAMES!" She lifts the microphone into the air and howls at the sky. Her latex shorts gleam in the light and I wince.

"Up first, we've got the lucky ladies," she says, stomping over to the reaping bowls and grabbing a fistful of slips. She lets them flutter through the gaps between her massive fingers until only one remains. Unfolding it, she squints at the name. "Jay- Ela Doo- Bo- Iss!" she howls.

_Jay-Ela Doo-Bo-Iss? _I think. That name sounds like a terrible mispronunciation of Jaela's name!

It hits me. That _is _a terrible mispronunciation of Jaela's name.

Jaela realizes this around the same time that I do. Her face goes devoid of emotion, and she stumbles forward. Her foot catches on a paving stone and she crashes to the ground, where she remains trembling.

_She can't do this, _I realize, with perfect clarity. _There is absolutely no way Jaela can win this._

It seems that Elise realizes this as well.

"I volunteer," she says, calmly. I whine, taking a step forward. _Oh no, no, not her. Please not her. _She moves past Jaela, who has risen to her knees, and takes small, purposeful steps towards the stage. Her dress swishes around her ankles. She looks wholly unafraid. She probably isn't very scared. Elise has always been supremely confident.

"Hell yeah!" Epsilon screams. "A volunteer!" She grabs Elise's thin wrists and throws her into the air. Elise hovers in the sky before plunging back into Epsilon's solid arms. "What's your name, kid?" Epsilon asks.

"Elise Victorien Rochefort," says Elise, still very white from being tossed around so roughly. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. _Be gentle with her._

As if in response to my internal plea, Epsilon dumps Elise on the stage. "Time for the lucky dude!" she calls, and repeats the process with the male reaping bowl. My mind works at a mile a minute. _Please. Let whoever it is be no threat to Elise._

"FOY JANSSEN!" Epsilon screams.

_That's me, _I think, and I realize that my prayers have been answered.

Elise looks horrified. But that's alright. She's probably worried about having to fight me, when I already know that I will never allow that to happen. There can only be one winner, and I know who I want it to be.

_I'll help you win, Elise, _I think, mounting the stage and smiling at her calmly.

Epsilon gives me a rough hug and introduces me to Panem. I stare at the cameras and try to exude an air of confidence similar to Elise's. If I have sponsors, she has sponsors. I desperately need her to have sponsors if I want her to win.

I'm in a daze as the reapings conclude and we're marched to the Justice Building. Elise is too horrified to talk, and I don't want to pressure her into speaking, so I remain silent. It is only once I'm situated in my room that I realize that I'm going to die, and my heart stills in my chest.

_But it's alright, _I think, trying to remain calm. _It will all be okay._

My mother and father come in. My mother is crying hysterically, and my father is raving. "I'll get my fans to stop this!" he promises. "We'll get you out of this, son."

I shake my head. "No, Father. I have to go on. You know that."

His face softens. "For her. You want to protect her, don't you?"

At this, my mother gives a scream. "You're going to die!" she wails. "You'll die for her, Foy!" She throws herself into my arms and sobs desperately.

I rub her back. "I will," I say. "You know I could never allow myself to win if it meant hurting Elise."

The next few minutes are heartbreaking. There are tears and caresses all around, made all the worse because we all know I'm not coming back. My parents don't want to leave when it's time, and the Peacekeepers have to pull my father out of the room. My mother showers me with kisses until they pull her out as well.

Not five minutes and the door opens again. Clara is waiting on the other side. 15 year old Clara Dubois, younger sister to Jaela. I'm guessing her older sister is currently with Elise at the moment.

Clara has never been an eloquent girl. "Damn," she whispers, as soon as the door closes. "I'm so sorry, Foy."

"It's alright," I breathe. "Tell your sister goodbye from me, won't you?"

"Of course." She crosses over and gives me a hug. "I guess I won't be seeing you again." Like everyone else, she knew from the start how unwilling I'd be to return with Elise in the grave.

"Yes," I agree, and hug her tighter. "You were an excellent friend."

Somehow the parting with Clara is much less painful. She's accepted my choice, and she's extremely supportive of it. Not because she cares for Elise more, but because she knows it would break me to do anything less.

When she finally leaves, I feel light, hollow. My goodbyes are finished, and I'm ready to go. Ready to die, even. The thought threatens to break my resolve, but I won't let it.

_I am Foy Janssen. I am eighteen years old. I am Elise's district partner, and I am going to save her life._

I am going to save her life.

**Elise Victorien Rochefort, 16**

**District Six**

I tug on my leotard, trying to pull it back into shape. I'm stalling, I know, but my mind is full and I probably shouldn't be doing gymnastics in this condition anyway.

Foy came to visit yesterday. Foy. He broke my heart into a thousand pieces, and he knows it. I'm sure he's also aware how much I still care about him, and it's clear that he misses me too. _I should never have told him, _I think, looking at my hands. My well-manicured hands, the hands that curl into fists every Saturday night, the hands that pummel my opponents into the ground.

Maybe Foy is right. Maybe it's horrid, how much I enjoy the rush from beating my opponents. But I donate the money to those who need it, don't I? The community home has never been better off.

With a sigh, I look at the mat. I'm getting in some last minute training, because one never knows. If I'm reaped, I'd like to have practiced, one more time.

My heart beats slowly as I step back and raise my hands above my head. Bolting forward, I flip into the air and land on my fingertips. Pushing off with my arms, I manage to land on my feet again. This is the first time all morning that I've nailed the landing.

I tug on my blonde ponytail and weave my arms behind my back. This next leap is one that I'm awful at, no matter how much my father assures me that it's alright. I suck in a breath between my teeth and bolt forward, tensing and then springing.

I am _supposed _to land on my feet after a complete flip. I land on my shoulder instead. A twanging pain erupts in my arm, and I collapse in a pile on the floor.

Hissing in pain, I jerk my arm out. The pain increases and then dulls, and I know that I've mostly managed to fix the problem. My hair is plastered to my forehead in sweat, and my leotard shines in the dull light.

Perhaps this is enough for the day. But even as I think it, I shake my head. No, it isn't enough. Not until I get it right.

I get to my feet painfully and stalk around the room, massaging my shoulder. I need to get some things out of my head before I'll be able to do this correctly. All of those things involve a certain Foy Janssen. The boy is driving me mad, he really is. I'd like to reiterate that he broke my heart. When I told him about the battles and he looked at me, all shock and wounded innocence, I could feel myself slipping. When he gently but firmly suggested a break, I smiled, agreed with him, and wailed like a scalded cat as soon as he left the house.

I thought I'd managed to get beyond Foy Janssen. But then my father mentioned that his mother wanted another meeting between us, "just to see how things go." And, no matter what, I want Father to be happy. _It's only one day, _I told myself. _What could possibly happen?_

Seeing him again was like coming out of winter into the delicious clear spring. And it was awkward at first, but when I reached for his hand and asked for a day, he gave it to me. And it was a glorious day.

Now I can't stop thinking about it. I wish I'd never told him about the stupid fighting business, so this separation never would have happened. Now I'm so confused, and it's all Foy Janssen's fault.

Well, I suppose I share the blame, a little bit.

I don't even notice that I'm moving until I fling myself in the air. The ground floats in a circle around my head. My body feels weightless.

My feet slam into the ground with such force that my teeth clash together. I sway, but I've done it. I've done the one flip that's been evading me for weeks.

I collapse on the mat, grinning uncontrollably. _I'm alright, _I think, and shove thoughts of Foy out of my head. _I'm okay._

Maybe things can still go well for me after all.

* * *

I would be much less uncomfortable, standing here in this square, if Foy wasn't looking at me.

I _know _he's looking, and as such I can't focus on Jaela's lovely conversation. She's telling a story about a boy that at any other time I'd find hysterical, but I know Foy is staring again and I just can't listen. Jaela notices my distraction, and guesses at the motive. She turns and waves cheerfully at Foy, forcing me to do the same. He waves back with a smile, and my cheeks burn.

"That was low," I tell her, grimacing slightly. "Honestly."

"Sorry," says Jaela. "I couldn't resist."

We fall silent as the Mayor takes to the stage. Mayor Pendleton is a charming woman, and a close friend of my father's. I understand that the two of them attempted something dangerous in the past, although what it was my father never told me. The reason doesn't really matter. The point is that he forced me through combat lessons that I used to find tedious, before I realized that I excelled at them.

Her speech goes by faster than I'd like, and Epsilon takes the stage. She is a truly terrifying woman (she _is _a woman, I believe) and as she shouts through the program all I can focus on is the way her muscles bulge. It is only when Jaela reaches for my hand that I realize she is about to reap someone.

"Jay-Ela Doo- Bo- Iss!" she screams.

The name is familiar to me. But I don't know it, do I? It isn't me, and that's really all that matters.

Jaela wrenches her hand away from mine. Her face is flushed. "Jaela?" I murmur, and blink as she begins to walk towards the stage. _What is she doing? Is she volunteering?_

It is at this point that I finally realize what Epsilon said.

Jaela has fallen, and remains trembling on the ground. There is no possible way she will win. She hasn't trained (not like me) she isn't confident (not like me) and I don't really think she'll be willing to charm the Capitol (not like me.)

Well then, it's obvious what has to happen, isn't it?

"I volunteer," I say, and walk forward.

Jaela looks at me as I stroll past. I don't look at her, because if I do, my resolve will wane. I attempt to look back as I mount the stage, but Epsilon grabs me and shouts something instead. Before I can escape, she throws me into the air. It's rather like a flip and I easily twist and land in her arms. "What's your name?" she asks.

"Elise Victorien Rochefort," I manage, and wince as she drops me. I land on all hands and feet, cat-like, and scramble to an upright position in time for Jaela to pick a slip.

_I wonder… _I begin, and then she yells out Foy's name.

No. Oh no, no, no. This can't be happening. My heart pounds in my chest and my palms begin to sweat. _No, not Foy. _He doesn't look scared as he walks to the stage. Does he think that little of us? Will he kill me so easily?

Apparently so.

But no, Foy would never intentionally hurt me. No doubt he's attempting to keep a straight face for the cameras. _I should do the same, _I think, and make myself impassive. But it hurts, as Foy stands next to me, our fingers brushing and bumping uncomfortably.

This can't be happening.

* * *

The Justice Building, and I wrap myself in a ball on the chair and pinch my legs until they're bright red. When the door opens, I jerk into a sitting position. My father's eyes are bright red, and I know he's been crying. "Not my little girl," he whispers, and snatches me into his chest. "Elise," he says. "You haven't been training for this, but you know how to fight. Just promise me you won't give up and you'll do fine."

"I promise," I whisper. My voice feels deadened. "Father? I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart," he says, and kisses my cheeks. We rock back and forth in a loving embrace, and he weeps into my hair. It takes everything I have not to weep with him. When my father is sad, I'm sad, and so forth. But I promised him I would do my best to win, and that means dry eyes for the cameras.

Eventually it's time for him to let go. He brushes my hair behind my ears and gives me a wobbly smile. "You're a wonderful, beautiful girl," he says, voice hushed. "I love you so much, no matter what. Please remember that."

"Of course," I say thickly. There's nothing left to do and he's leaving. I get to my feet and blow kisses and try not to cry.

The door doesn't even get to close behind him before Jaela bursts in. She's sobbing more than he was, and she wraps me in an embrace. "You selfless person!" she whimpers. "Oh you wonderful, wonderful soul."

"Jaela," I soothe, rubbing her back. "It isn't like that."

She pulls away, nose bright red. "It is," she blubbers. "You saved me. Oh, Elise… Thank you. Thank you so much." Her eyes well up with tears again. "And Foy…" She buries her face in the crook of my shoulder.

"It's alright," I say quietly. "It's all going to be alright. The both of us, we'll be fine. You'll see." It's folly to say such things, but that's what we do with our loved ones. We provide comfort and we hope for the best. It's all we can do, really.

When she leaves, I collapse in my chair and throw my arm over my eyes. My heart hurts, and it's about to hurt some more. _Foy Janssen, _I think. _Foy, Foy, Foy._

Only one can win.

And I'll be damned if it isn't one of us.

* * *

**AAAAAND...**

**JAYFISHY FIRETRUCKIN' QUESTION TIME!**

**#007: How do you cope with people you really, really dislike?**

**#008: What's your favorite subject at school? Why?**


	5. The Reapings: Districts Seven and Eight

**MERRY CHRISTMAS!**

**As some of you might have seen already, there is a new SYOT on my profile. I know what you're thinking. "But Jay, you're ALREADY so lazy! How can you possibly do two SYOTs at once?"**

**Never fear, dear readers! This is a collaborative SYOT between myself and two other writers, jakey121 and Acereader55. So I'll still have oodles of time :)**

**Anyway, it'd be appreciated if you dropped by and submitted a character! That's all I really have to say. Happy Holidays, everyone!**

* * *

**Auburn Mist, 16**

**District Seven**

Peacekeepers. I barely need to examine them to know how I should behave. Every Peacekeeper I've ever met has seemed to prefer a humble, deferential kind of person. Glancing at these two, I take in the male's harsh eyes and the way the female's hands are wrapped around her gun, as though she's just itching to shoot something with it. Perhaps I'll need to be a bit more than humble with these two around.

They're guarding the chain-link fence that separates the residential areas of District Seven from the woods. The woods are by no means off-limits; indeed, we have to work in them most days. But this is reaping day, and one of the only times we get off. They're probably guarding in case anyone tries to run.

But that's not why I'm here.

I slink to a stop in front of them and offer a wobbling smile. "I'm so, so, _so _sorry to bother you," I begin. "I understand that you're probably not allowed to let me in, and I'll turn around and walk away right now if you tell me to." They're intrigued, and although the woman is still clutching that gun a little too tightly, I think I've got them right where I want them.

"My younger sister wanted me to prepare for the reapings with her," I continue, "so I hurried home right after work. Only I left my axe in one of the saplings. The policy is that it always has to go back with the others, and I truly don't want to break the rules in any way." I bow my head. "Please, if it isn't too much trouble. Please give me the chance to correct my mistake."

I'm not even nervous. The axe thing is a sham, so if they turn me away I'll have lost nothing. Besides, I think I've played them well. They think I'm weak, afraid of them, and humble. I suppose I _am _humble, but I'm certainly not as afraid of them as I've made myself out to be!

The man sniffs. "What a _moron," _he exclaims, leering down at me. "We should punish you for this."

I stay silent, although my heart has begun to pump. _They don't have the authority… do they?_

"That's stupid," the woman blurts. "What do you suggest we do, Maurice? Shoot her? For a simple mistake like that?"

Maurice turns to the woman, bristling with anger. "Who said anything about shooting her? All I said was _punish _and then you go make some wild prediction about _shooting _her!"

These two clearly have some kind of rift between them. Getting in the midst of their fight would be a bad idea. The woman is clearly the one siding with me (even if it is just to annoy Maurice) so I'll stick with her.

"Please, ma'am," I whimper. She looks down at me coolly, probably annoyed that I interrupted her, but I don't budge.

"Don't you dare," Maurice growls.

She grins viciously, grabbing my forearm. "Right through here," she says, pushing me through the gap in the fence. "Make sure to hurry back, or we'll have to go look for you! My aim's a bit rusty, but I'm sure I could get a leg!" She makes a finger gun and mimes blowing one of my legs to smithereens.

Maurice is shouting at her as I hurry through the trees. The scent of pine is diffused in the air and I'm able to forget about the Peacekeepers within minutes. It's reaping day, so I have quite a bit more to think about.

I promised Claudine I would get her something. The woods, threatening as they are, have the best presents for a six-year old girl that I can find. If we had just a little extra money, I suppose I could scrounge something from the toy shop. But the money I get from working double shifts in the woods is barely enough to keep food on the table.

In the treetops, I hear a bird whistling. I wonder briefly if it's a mockingjay. Even if it is, I can't interact with it. I'm no singer, and my whistling isn't exactly up to par either.

I'm walking the path that the lumberjacks take every day. The grass is flattened and in some places it's possible to see where axes scored the earth. At one point, I turn to the right and dart into the trees. I know what I want, and it's right here.

First, there's the berry patch. The berries are clustered underneath one massive tree, and I stuff as many as I can into the sack I brought with me.

Phase One of my plan to make Claudine happy: completed. Now it's time for Phase Two. Cue the apprehension.

_It's just some bees, _I think, looking up at the nest. Claudine's sweet tooth has only been satiated several times in the past, and honey was the perpetrator both times. For some reason, she's terrified this year, convinced that it's going to be my turn to face the Capitol. I need something to calm her down with, and honey is the only way.

"Here goes nothing," I whisper. Only the mockingjays hear me, and they ignore my words. I jog to the trunk and press my feet against the wood, pushing myself up and up.

When I reach the nest, I prepare myself. _All I need to do is grab and go, _I think. _It'll take two seconds. _My palms are sweating as I reposition myself on the trunk so that one hand is free. About the same time I hear an intense buzzing behind my ear, I lunge.

A fat glob of honey comes off in my hand and I've let go of the tree. The angry buzzing triples and pain explodes in the side of my head. I'm running, frantic, but grinning in spite of myself. _Stupid bugs, _I think, stuffing the honey into the sack.

I can still hear them behind me, but they're regular bees and the buzzing soon fades as they lose interest. When I'm certain I've lost the last of the flying horde, I stop and lean against a tree, panting. The back of my ear has gone puffy and red. Tentatively, I poke it with my finger. It hurts, but not so bad. With a grimace, I probe for the barbed stinger I know is still burrowed in my skin.

I manage to grasp it between my thumb and forefinger and yank it out. The pain is immediate, and I can feel some kind of fluid bubbling out from the hole. I wipe it away on my knuckle, stuffing the sack underneath my shirt. Maybe this was a pointless endeavor, but I can give this to Claudine after the reapings. She'll learn how unlikely it is that I'll be picked, and everything will be alright.

_Everything will be alright, _I emphasize, walking back towards the fence where I imagine the Peacekeepers are still arguing. _Everything will be alright._

I can only hope that I'm right.

* * *

It turns out that I barely have enough time to make it to the reaping square, let alone back home to my sister. I tie the bag around my slim waist and stuff it underneath my shirt, trying to ignore the slimy feeling as honey seeps through the rough cloth and stains my skin.

The escort for District Seven is new this year. I don't recognize him, and I'm sure I would because he is the most distinctive creature I've ever seen. His skin is a toxic green color and he has a red Mohawk that rises above his otherwise bald head. When his tongue flicks between his sharpened teeth I notice that it's forked, and his eyes are yellow and slit.

Alright, so he's quite literally terrifying. It should be okay, though. As long as I don't have to go up there, it's going to be fine.

Mizar stands next to me with her arms crossed over her chest. She looks less than impressed by the escort. _She's going to make a comment, isn't she? _I think, and groan internally. Of course she'll make a comment. She's Mizar, how could she resist?

And I'm her best friend, so I'll support her. "Freaky," I murmur, nodding in our escort's direction. This seems to be the prompt Mizar was waiting for, because she launches into a spiel about how twisted this guy obviously is and how he's probably a pedophile, that this year's tributes better keep their doors locked. Not reassuring stuff in the moments before the reapings begin, but again, she's Mizar.

The escort slinks to the microphone. "Welcome," he rasps. "My name isss Draco Komodi. I will be Dissstrict Ssseven'ss essscort thisss year."

His tongue is probably really annoying, because his lisp is ridiculous. But I won't judge him on that one. He probably didn't even realize the perils of a forked tongue until it was all too late.

"Let uss choossse our female tribute," Draco suggests. He limps to the reaping bowls, raising one green hand into the air. His fingernails are long and sharpened, and 100 percent disturbing. I imagine them sinking into flesh and wince.

The fingernails dip into the bowl. After shifting through several slips, he decides on one and plucks it out. Grinning uncontrollably, he unfolds it. Yellow eyes scrawl across the paper, and then, deliberately, he stabs it through with one black fingernail, impaling the name through its inky heart.

"Auburn Missst," says Draco. "It'sss time to die."

It takes a full second for the words to register, and by then it's all too late. Heart beating wildly in my chest, bouncing against the bag full of goodies for my sister, the first instinct is to bolt. I duck into the crowd, keeping my head down. The Peacekeepers might not be able to catch me if I move quickly enough. I'm fast, and I know how to blend into a crowd.

I manage to make it to the edge of the square before I realize how futile it is. The whole place is surrounded, and as soon as I make myself visible, the Peacekeepers swarm. Three converge on me before I have time to bolt back into safety. They're not gentle, either, as they secure my arms.

I realize with dread that the two from earlier have identical firm grips on me, as well as a blonde man who I don't recognize. "You really are a moron," Maurice exclaims, looking pleased.

"Should've let me shoot you back there," the Peacekeeper woman says nonchalantly, as they force me up the steps. "It would've been faster."

They deposit me standing next to Draco. My skin crawls with revulsion as he looks me over. I want to run again, but my legs feel like jelly.

I've now succeeded in making myself look like the biggest wimp in the Games. _Doomed, _I think, and my eyes widen. _Doomed…_

That's what everyone else will think, too.

_So that's my angle._

It takes quick thinking to come up with something so clever. I'll admit, it's a risky strategy. Tributes _might _ignore me, or they might just want to get me out of the way during the Bloodbath. But it's all I have right now, especially after that entrance.

I start to cry. Big crocodile tears cascade down my cheeks, and I rub my eyes furiously. My shoulders shake and I try to hide my face from the cameras. _They'll think I'm weak. They'll think I'm pathetic and weak and a bloodbath for sure._

Draco is chuckling, with a nasally, unpleasant wheeze. Slowly, I let my sobs fade into quiet whimpers. There are murmurs throughout the crowd. No one likes to see someone crying on the stage. I doubt the Capitol people like it either. It doesn't make for good television.

"Moving on," says Draco. I keep my eyes hidden behind my hands, so I don't see when he removes the slip that reads "Rikki Sssaraya."

Rikki Saraya. I don't know him, and when I peek out from behind my fingers, I'm glad. He's a big guy, with bulging muscles. I consider myself a tall girl, but Rikki has several inches on me.

_He looks dangerous, _I think, and I realize that that's a good thing. The more impressive my district partner is, the more pathetic I'll look in comparison. And I really do want to look pathetic. I don't want to be a background tribute at all. If I wanted to fade away, I shouldn't have run. I have to stand out now, and I have to leave the worst impression I can on my competition. I suppose that Rikki is a good place to start.

When I drag my hands away from my face, he smiles at me. It isn't a terrifying leer like I expected; it's a nervous but genuinely kind smile. Instead of smiling back, I squeak and back away. His smile evaporates and he looks hurt, confused. For a moment I want to take it back.

_No, _I remind myself. _There's no more compassion. He's going to try to kill me. I have to stay strong._

Who'd have thought that staying strong would involve so much crying?

* * *

It takes nearly a half an hour before anyone shows up. By the time the door squeaks open, I'm convinced that none of my friends want to see me. But there's Mizar, marching through the door with one hand clamped tightly around my little sister's arm. Mizar's eyes are curiously bright, but her cheeks are red and I know she's furious.

Behind her trails Jordan. His face is frozen in a mask of horror. Jordan is one of the happiest people I know, so I can only imagine that he must be in total shock right now.

I scrub the tears out of my eyes. "Hey, guys," I manage.

Mizar takes a deep breath and turns to my sister, a very fake smile on her face. "Will you stand with Jordan, sweetie?" she asks brightly. Claudine nods and steps to Jordan, wrapping herself around one of his legs.

As soon as Claudine is a suitable distance away, Mizar has me by the collar. "The fuck was that?" she hisses, so as not to disturb my sister. "What were you _doing?"_

"It's my strategy," I snap, disliking the constricting cloth around my throat. "I'm not _that _weepy, okay?"

Mizar relaxes visibly, letting go of my collar and taking a step back. "Oh. Okay." She rubs the back of her head. "You sure that's a good idea? They might go after you just 'cause they think you're weak."

"If I survive the Bloodbath, it'll be okay," I tell her firmly. "They won't hunt me specifically. They'll pass me up if there's a chance for better prey, too. I think it's a good bet."

"You think you can get out of the Bloodbath?"

"Well, maybe. I'm fast. That's all I need, right?"

Mizar shrugs uncomfortably. Now that she's no longer angry at me, she shifts and twitches and blinks rather rapidly. It's clear that she's trying not to cry.

Well, I can't have that. I grin at her, even though my insides are roiling. "It's a good strategy," I say, in a voice that oozes confidence. "They'll pass me up. I'm gonna get far with it."

Tentatively, Jordan and Claudine sidle up to me. I take one look at Claudine and I know that nobody told her. Well, she knows _something's _up, but they left it to me to explain.

From the way she looks right now, with her trembling lower lip and pale features, she needs someone to be strong right now, and it really has to be me. The bag is still underneath my shirt, and I yank it out and hand it to her. Her eyes light up and she reaches into the bag greedily, coming away with a chunk of honey which she pops into her mouth.

While she's chewing, I begin to talk, very fast. "Claudine, sweetie. I'm going away. I might not be back for a while… or I might not ever come back."

That gets her attention. She looks up and the smile slips off her face. My resolve wavers, but I keep going.

"Stay with Jordan," I say, because I know he has enough room at home. "Mizar will help take care of Papa, but you can help too if you want." My father is bedridden, trapped in the house. I think about his burnt flesh and wince. What is he going to do now that his one source of income (me) has flown the coop? I don't want my dad to die, but without me, I think… I think he will.

Poor, poor Claudine. My poor little sister.

But this is no time for hysterics. I'll be crying again as soon as they leave. It won't really be a part of my act, either; I'm desperately sad. There is no way to describe this hopeless feeling. It's like a cancer in my stomach, eating away at nerves and fibers.

When I wrap all three of my best friends in a hug, it goes away.

But only for a moment.

**Rikki Saraya, 16**

**District Seven**

We're supposed to get the day off, come reaping day. And I'm really not one to complain about it. Despite the fact that the general population believes that reaping day is a time where work falls to an absolute standstill, I'm out here, hacking away at a stubborn tree that just refuses to give in.

Well. It's three o' clock in the morning. Does that even count as reaping day? Suppose not.

If it wasn't for the Capitol woman behind me, and her demand that she get the _perfect _tree for her new cabinet _right away, _I'd be at home, in bed. Well, I'd probably be having some kind of stress-induced nightmare, so maybe the night air is good for me. At least I'll be too tired to worry about being reaped.

I've been out in these dark woods for nearly four hours, and the tree won't budge. The Capitol woman (what's her name? Saspasilla?) showed up when we were finishing up for the day. My family doesn't need the money so I'm only in the woods part time, but the foreman chose me to help the lady get her tree. It took her nearly an hour to pick the one she wanted, and seeing as it's a thick tree and all I've got is an axe, it's taken me this long to even get close to finishing.

"You know," says Sarsaparilla (_that's _her name), "you're quite the handsome fellow."

She must be in her thirties. I understand that Capitol people don't really give a damn about age and whatnot, but I'm surprised she's making these kinds of insinuations to a district rat. I'm sure that's what she equates me to, a rat.

"Thanks," I tell her, pulling back with the axe before sending it crashing into the trunk. Slivers of wood pepper my exposed forearms, and I grit my teeth.

I can hear her breathing behind me. I have no clue why she wanted to waste several hours standing and watching me work. I have long since given up trying to understand Capitol people and their ways.

I am about to pull back the axe when I feel her long fingernails pricking the back of my neck. "Strong," she comments, running her nails over the corded veins in the side of my neck. "I like strong boys."

This has gone far enough. "I'm sorry," I say, turning so swiftly that her nails slip away from my skin. "I'm sure you're a lovely person. But I'm not into women."

It's gotten easier, laying it all out on the table like that. If anything, this Capitol woman should be much less bigoted than my peers. Even if she's not, I'm so used to homophobia that I barely notice it anymore.

She huffs, clearly disappointed. "Are you sure you don't want to try me?" she whines. "I could give you money!"

There's something so perverse about this. Maybe if my family wasn't well off, if I was poor, I'd take her up on her offer. As it is, I have to swallow my revulsion. "I'm sorry," I say again, landing a terrific blow on the tree. "I'm not going to do anything with you.

"Stand back," I add, warding her off with my forearm. "It's going to fall." I indicate the tree with a nod of my head.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Sarsaparilla scampers back a few paces. I gauge the direction it will fall (to the left) and strike the finishing blow. There is a cracking sound that's disturbingly similar to the snap of bones breaking. The tree grumbles and vibrates, and smacks against the ground with a crash that chatters my teeth.

Sarsaparilla gives a little shriek. "You damaged it!" she squeals, trotting over to the tree in her six-inch heels. She kneels down awkwardly and attempts to push over the tree to check the opposite side. It's not a very big tree, but she's obviously never worked a day in her life and can barely touch the wood without getting calluses. With a sigh, I cross over to her and bend over, placing my hands on the trunk. One heave and the tree has been overturned.

Sarsaparilla looks at the pattern of mud on the trunk accusingly. "You've ruined it," she exclaims, jabbing one talon-like nail downward.

I breathe through my nose. "It's fine," I tell her. "It's just some mud. You can wash it off."

She gives a tragic sniffle but does nothing else. When I start to move away from the tree, she holds up her hand. "Take it," she says.

"That's not our policy," I exclaim patiently. "You'll have to wait until the morning when the other guys can help me haul this thing."

Her expression turns malicious. "Too bad," she sings. "Your overseer said that you could handle it. I need it tonight!" Now she's smiling at me, daring me to argue.

She's obviously insane. These Capitol people can really drive me up the wall sometimes.

_I'm not going to be able to feel my back after this, _I think, and wrap my arms around the roots.

* * *

I can't feel my back.

The sun beats down on my face. I can feel warmth spreading over my skin, but the numbness from my back blots it out. My entire body is still trembling with exertion. It took me an hour and a half to lug the tree the short distance back to the fence, where the woman's car was waiting.

_At least I didn't have a heart attack, _I think, trying to be somewhat optimistic. It doesn't really help, but at least it takes my mind off the frightening numbness for a while.

Our escort is new. He's definitely got a strange look about him. Red Mohawk, slit tongue, sharp teeth, the whole shebang. _Whoever gets reaped is going to have to deal with that guy, _I think, sympathetic. _Good luck to them._

The disturbing Capitol man takes up the microphone. "Welcome. My name issss Draco Komodi. I will be Dissstrict Ssseven'ss esscort thisss year."

Apparently the forked tongue actually does impair his speech. Capitol people have a really weird taste in fashion.

"Let usss choossse our female tribute," says Draco, slinking towards the reaping bowls. With one talon (no, _hand_) he plucks a single slip of paper into the air, which he somehow manages to unfurl with his long, sharp nails.

"Auburn Misst," he calls, and the square is silent. "It'sss time to die."

There is a ripple in the crowd, and then it surges as a people are thrown backwards by an unseen force. I'm not quite sure what's going on until the Peacekeepers converge. They march towards the stage, and only then do I see the girl struggling amongst them, kicking and sobbing violently. _That's awful, _I think vehemently, clenching my fists. _Poor Auburn._

She stands on the stage and looks out at the crowd, sobbing uncontrollably. Draco, on the other hand, is looking at her and _laughing. _I feel a quiet rage building up inside me, and I close my eyes. Maybe there are some good people in the Capitol, but so far I haven't seen a single one.

After a few moments, Draco stalks towards the other reaping bowl, the male's. My palms begin to sweat and I stuff my hands into my pockets. _Calm down, _I tell myself. _What are the odds?_

"Rikki Sssaraya!"

Oh. Apparently the odds were pretty good.

I swallow hard. The crowd parts before me and I begin to walk. _Step, step, step. _I wonder if the ruthless kids from school, the homophobes and the bullies, are celebrating. I don't think they could possibly be that cruel, but who knows? The world isn't a nice place, really.

I make it to the stage. Auburn is peeking at me from behind her fingers. Her eyes are wet with tears. _My district partner, _I think, feeling numb. I just can't believe it. All those years, thinking I was safe. My family is well off, I never needed tesserae. Apparently it doesn't matter as much as everyone was lead to believe.

My stomach is tying itself into knots, but I make an effort to smile at Auburn. _Hey, _I think, _we'll pull through, the both of us. Just you see._

Instead of smiling back, she squeaks and ducks away.

It hurts. I'm not even going to pretend like it doesn't. I've gotten used to people judging me by my appearance, my muscles, my height, but it still hurts. _I should be used to this, _I think, staring out over the crowd. _She's just another person who's frightened by me. Can't even keep track of them anymore._

Well. Maybe that can help me in the Games, or something.

I guess I'll find out, and that's the idea that scares me more than anything.

* * *

Before the Peacekeepers have even left, my mother breezes through their ranks and gives me an efficient hug. Efficiency is my mother's favorite word.

"Rikki," she says, still holding me tightly. I realize that her tears are peppering the back of my neck. "I'm so sorry."

I hold her, my strong fingers digging into her back. "It's okay," I soothe, even though I can barely breathe because of the weight in my chest. "It's fine."

She pulls away and studies me. Her dark eyes are moist and rimmed with red. "It isn't," she says. "I have to go. I already have to go."

She's the Mayor's assistant. It's an important, prestigious job, but it means that I rarely see her. Even now, during what is very well our last meeting, her job is sinking its claws into her and pulling her away from me.

But I can't voice these thoughts, can't sour this supposedly sacred moment with bitterness. I manage a wavering smile instead. "I love you," I blurt.

She gives me an identical smile. "I love you too," she says, backing away. "Win."

It isn't an option. It isn't a choice. It's what she expects me to do. _Win._

At this point, she's already out the door, but I say it anyway. "Alright," I promise. "I'll win. Alright."

A few moments pass, and my father opens the door. No doubt he took his time getting here, doing his best to compose himself. Tonight, he'll sleep alone, while my mother files paperwork and weeps on manila folders.

"Rikki!" he says, and opens his arms. I slam into them and let him hug me. He smells like meat. My father is District Seven's butcher, a job that brings in almost as much money as Mom's does. But money can't buy happiness, something that I expect will be in short supply in the days ahead.

"Rikki," he says again, and I realize that he's crying. His ample belly heaves with every sob. Watching my mother cry was one thing, but hearing my father cry is too much. My lip wobbles and I shut my eyes but it's too late. A tear trickles down my cheek, and then another, and then I'm swiping at my eyes like a little kid.

"I don't want to die," I whisper into his shirt. "Oh, Dad. I really don't."

He hiccups. "Then don't die," he whispers. "You could do it, Rikki. You're strong, you know axes. You weight train."

"I don't know," I say, looking at the floor. The tears are a steady stream and they're not letting up. "I don't think it matters."

Now my father looks stern. "Then make it matter," he orders. There's a knock on the door, the indication that time is up. He turns his head and looks back to me. "You come back home," he says, his voice breaking near the end. "You come back home to me."

He leaves the room with a final wave. As he's walking through the door, my best friend Aya is squeezing past him. "Wait for me," she tells him quickly, and he nods before the door shuts behind him.

Before she's even close to me, she's talking. "You don't go into the Bloodbath," she orders. "You'll think you're up for it, but you aren't. If you go in there and you die, I'll kill you." She's talking so quickly that I barely notice the desperation in her tone. But I _do _notice it.

"Allies," she says. "You'll need them. So be nice and _make _some." Now she's definitely crying. Tears drip down her cheeks like molten glass, but she doesn't stop. "Make a good impression on the Capitol people," she sobs. "Don't. Mess. Up."

We're both crying, and I hold her close. "I'll try," I tell her, petting her blonde hair.

"I love you," she whimpers.

"I love you too." It's something I can say without thinking. She's the closest I will ever get to a sister.

When she pulls away, she's smiling. "I'll miss you, Rikki," she tells me. "Take care of yourself. Don't forget to write."

It brings a smile to my face, despite the wetness of my eyes. "I'll miss you, Aya. Say goodbye to the people at school for me."

That one makes her smile turn darker. "Won't have to," she says, moving towards the door. "You'll be able to tell them yourself."

When the door slams shut, all I can think is that my people have more confidence in me than I have in myself.

And I'm going to fight to prove them right.

**Ceylon Romana, 15**

**District Eight**

The sky is grey and cold, almost stormy. This late in June, I wouldn't expect a storm. Besides, the clouds scudding across the roof of the world are white and puffy. This is just the color of the early morning.

I've gotten up early to prepare. It's disturbing how much value our district puts on reaping attire. District Eight is known for its cloth, and our people seem to think that it _matters _somehow.

As if clothing could possibly matter! _This _is what matters, the cool air brushing my auburn hair away from my forehead, the sun peeking out from behind a building, the sparse grass prickling the underside of my bare feet.

The camp has not yet come to life. We moved from an abandoned square in the center of the district to this place, straddling the outskirts of District Eight. As far as the eye can see is flat plains and grass that looks dead. _This place is poison, _I think darkly. _The smog is killing everything for miles! And they won't do anything about it._

It seems that no one in District Eight particularly cares about what they're killing. But there are, _were, _trees and animals and plants out there. Now they're all dead. I can't say it enrages me, exactly. What I'm feeling now is more akin to disgust.

"Ceylon!" I jump slightly and turn my head. Hilda has come up behind me, her skirts fluttering in the breeze. "Come here, child," she says, beckoning me. "All the children have joined for meditation. We expect you to join us."

Meditation is not one of the Ancient Arts, but it is a fine way to calm oneself down. I nod in acceptance and follow Hilda to the center of the camp. All 17 of my brothers and sisters are sitting in a circle, eyes closed. I slip into my place next to Baramor and close my eyes.

I hear, but do not see, Hilda taking her place in the center of the circle. "Breathe," she instructs. "Empty your minds. Don't think."

I picture myself surrounded by nothing but whiteness. There is nothing to think about. I exist, not as a body but as a soul. _Breathe. _I am extremely conscious of my own breathing. _In, out. _Every breath is a tidal wave crashing through my nostrils.

When I open my eyes again, the sun has managed to break through the clouds. My head feels uncluttered and devoid of any of the oppressive smog this district breeds. A faint smile slips onto my lips, and I get to my feet. The circle has partially disintegrated, as various children have already completed their meditation and slipped away to other pastimes.

It could very well be the last chance I have to meditate with the others. For today is reaping day, and there is the faint chance that I will be chosen. I am a district nomad, barely a member of this society, but my name has been entered along with hundreds of others'. Because of my meditation, I am able to think of it without shuddering, but it _is _a daunting prospect.

The Hunger Games. There is nothing on this planet that I can think of that is quite so vile. 23 children die, every year, for nothing. And the Capitol considers it some kind of entertainment?

Disgusting. I am a pacifist, and the very notion of killing another human being is terrible to me. The children from the Career districts… I don't know how they do it. I don't know how they can live with themselves, being what they are. Killers. Glorified killers, certainly, but it doesn't change the fact that they kill for nothing.

Next to me, Baramor stirs and opens his eyes. He sees me standing, lost in thought, and gets to his feet, putting a hand on my shoulder and pulling me away from the circle.

We head to the edge of camp wordlessly. My hair flutters in the breeze and I blink to keep my eyes moist. Simultaneously, we lower ourselves to the ground and sit. Instead of facing the smog and darkness of District Eight, we look away, to the flattened fields.

We have a ritual for reaping day. It has worked for Baramor for all six of his reaping years, and for the three I've experienced, it has worked for me.

Like usual, Baramor starts. "By the trees," he says.

"By the wind," I chorus.

"The sun."

"The sky."

"The clouds."

"The air."

He looks at me coolly. "By my life."

"By my life," I agree, and slip the pin from where I've left it in the pocket of my dress. It kisses my finger and a dot of blood wells up against my skin. Passing the pin to Baramor, he pricks his finger as well. I press our fingers together. Pain wells up at my bone, hot and cold at the same time.

"Give us one more year," we intone simultaneously. Our fingers remain glued together by blood and pain.

That's all to the ritual. We've called upon the power of what is organic in our district, what can still be described as natural. And it will be enough. It is magick, strange and powerful. Nothing can stand against it. Not even the might of the Capitol.

We are safe.

* * *

As I stand in wait at the reaping square, I am calm. I am safe, after all. There is the slightest chance that I failed to intone correctly, or that the conditions were not right for magick. But it _is _a small chance.

Our escort takes the stage with a quiet dignity. Plutonium Zircon is one of the least detestable Capitol people that I've seen, of yet. He seems as disturbed by the smoke clouding the air as I am. He glances at the sky, bites his lip, and takes the microphone.

As always, he has a scripted speech prepared. He reads through it quickly with a strange force behind his words. He has an extremely powerful way of speaking. If I didn't have ways to avoid falling for his charms, I might be spelled by him. I can see citizens in the crowd nodding at his emphatic words. _No, _I think. _Any society that murders children has a cancer. Not even Plutonium can pretend as if that isn't true._

At long last, he slips his cue cards into the pocket of his blazer. "It is time," he says. "I know you've all been waiting for this. I'm sure that you're all scared, but think! You'll be fighting to represent your district. You think it's a death sentence, but it isn't. I'm sure that each tribute will bring pride to District Eight."

Without further embellishment, he walks to the reaping bowls. I am so sure that I'm safe, but I feel the familiar tightening in my chest anyway. _It will not be me._

Plutonium unfolds the paper. "Ceylon Quill!" he calls.

_Quill. _I know them. My birth-family, the capitalists who care nothing for nature, and the animals and trees. _One of them has been reaped, _I think. _One of them…_

No. Not one of them.

_Ceylon._

That would be me.

I march forward and somehow manage to struggle through the crowd. It wasn't enough. The ritual has failed. Perhaps I am being punished for something I don't know. What have I done to deserve this? What horrors have I called down on my head?

I become aware of myself again. Plutonium smiles, shakes my hand. "And our male tribute," he says, yanking a slip from the bowl, "is Wilson Brothers."

He marches from the crowd, dark horror and confusion written all over his face. His hair is dark brown and slicked back, revealing hazel eyes. He gets on the stage with nostrils flared.

"You two will make District Eight proud," Plutonium promises.

_Maybe, _I think. _But with what I believe in intact? I don't believe that's possible, Plutonium. Not possible at all._

* * *

No one comes to visit me.

This is standard. In the rare event that a Romana is reaped, it is customary for the others to return to the camp and partake in the ritual of the reaped. Even now, they are throwing something of mine onto the flames, watching it curl into ash.

I think of the Quills. I should probably be clearing my mind of all anxiety, but I want to think about the family that did not deserve me.

The Romana family is in constant need of new blood. Inbreeding cannot be allowed. As such, on occasion, a child is snatched. Taken from capitalists who wouldn't have known what to do with it.

I was one of these children. It sounds a bit horrible out of context, but I am so grateful to the Romana clan, for what they've done for me. Imagining what my life would have been like without them is disturbing. I would have been… like the other district children. Trapped in a life of smoke and dirt. Never fully understanding the trees and animals that lay just beyond the borders.

Ruefully, I rub my elbow. My fingertips brush against scar tissue. I received the scar when I was 12. I remember running back to the camp from the reapings, filled with a wild joy. In my haste, my feet tangled and I fell, scraping my elbow brutally on concrete.

If it had been grass, I wouldn't have been cut at all.

In any case, I tell people that it's a birthmark. It's more interesting of a story than the truth.

A harsh rap on the door startles me from my thoughts. "Nobody's coming, Romana," the Peacekeeper calls. Ah, he recognizes me as a Romana. Most of the district people don't like us. We are liable to take our revenge against the more twisted of the rich sheltered within city walls, and they don't like it. Some despise us, even.

"Alright," I call amiably. "We'll go, then." As I stand up and walk to the door, my heart begins to pound uncomfortably. I can feel the fear threatening to overtake me.

But I won't allow that.

_Breathe, _I remind myself. _Just breathe. That's all you have to do._

If the key to the Games were as simple as that, we'd all be Victors.

**Wilson Brothers, 17**

**District Eight**

_Once upon a time, there lived a prince and a princess in a beautiful castle on a hill._

I narrow my eyes at the book. It's a gaudy, colored thing, with ridiculous fantasy pictures and a flowing typeset that makes it _that much _more difficult to read. "How do they feed children this trash?" I mutter to myself, flipping the thick pages experimentally.

It's a typical story. The princess is kidnapped by some sort of mythical beast, a "dragon," and the prince immediately abandons his entire livelihood (and his kingdom, I might add) to rescue her. Where is the realism? If this were a real-life scenario, the prince would have an entire kingdom clamoring for his leadership. He'd have no time to go on frivolous adventures after maidens with no penchant for rescuing themselves.

The ending is the most ridiculous part of the story. The princess is saved by the valiant young hero, who slays the dragon with his rapier. _Honestly. _In the picture, the dragon is a scaly, twisted thing. Its claws are bigger than the hero's horse.

In what world could _any _human defeat such a beast? Not this world, certainly. And, I repeat, they give books like this to _children. _What kind of lesson would a child glean from this book? If I were a gullible, innocent youth, perhaps I would think to myself, _I suppose even the littlest person can defeat his foe, if he only tries._

_ If he only tries. _How stupid. I've heard people swearing that trying again and again will eventually produce results, but they're _wrong, _plain and simple. Sometimes, people try and fail, and that is the end of it.

With an exclamation of disgust, I toss the book onto the corner table and throw myself into my chair. I nudge the gaudy title away with my elbow and retrieve the book I was going after, _Inner Workings. _I don't think it's a forbidden title, but it is a difficult book to find. It's lucky that my family is as wealthy as it is.

I flip through the pages, breathing in the scent of crisp white paper. Unlike that silly picture thing, this book is of a utilitarian, almost mechanical stock. The words have been stamped into the pages so hard it is as if I can see their imprints on the opposite page.

_Inner Workings _delves into the mind of Vincent Foray, a disturbed young man with a series of psychological problems. At this particular point in the book, Vincent has hallucinated himself into a terrifying nightmare of clockwork and machinery. It is an absorbing read, although the constant attempts to disturb the reader can get rather dull.

_As he stood on the iron walkway, trembling and gasping, the clock began to chime. "No," said Vincent, shaking his head numbly. In the distance, through the darkness, he could see the red meat on the cavern walls. Pulsating. Quivering._

I jerk up my head at the muted boom of a clock, chiming the hour. It is somewhere else in the house, hidden behind closed doors and thick curtains. A chill runs down my spine and I turn back to the book.

_Something resonated throughout the cavern. It was a deep, rasping sound. Dragging, and breathing. It was quiet, but getting louder. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he was seized by the wild urge to turn around. But the red flesh had crawled up his boots and kept him firmly in place._

I shift my feet, brushing off imaginary dirt. The door is closed, but I am seized with the conviction that there is _something there. _I give a choked laugh and turn back to the book. How foolish, to be affected by a silly little story.

_He felt a moist, clammy pressure on his lower back. His hair was blown back as something breathed into his ear. The stink of death wrapped around him like a shroud, and then it said his name. Delicately, like a pin balanced at the edge of a bone-white finger._

"Wilson."

I jump, the book clattering to the ground. Red-faced, I stoop over to pick it up as my mother enters the room busily. "You need to get ready," she says, barely sparing me a glance. "Stop reading and get moving."

I don't have time to reply, as she's already exited the room. A mixture of annoyance and embarrassment makes me shake my head. _It's just a book, _I tell myself, and throw it on the table next to the foolish picture book. _I wasn't frightened, either. Just a bit spooked._

After all, there's nothing frightening about a simple story.

* * *

I pull my jacket a bit tighter around my lean frame. It's a nice jacket, and it feels like a waste to be wearing it to the reapings. After all, the notion that I will be reaped is ridiculous. I have next to no slips in the bowl, compared to the uneducated masses of District Eight's poor. It is almost impossible that I will be reaped. I'm not worried.

I roll my eyes as the escort takes the stage. Out of all the ridiculous people in this country, the ones from the Capitol take the cake (to use the rather banal phrase.) I doubt any of those people have two brain cells to rub together.

I make a point not to listen to his ridiculous prattling until he slouches to one of the bowls. "Ceylon Quill!" he calls, and after a few moments a girl in a ridiculous dress comes walking to the stage. I recognize the homespun cloth and idiotic head scarf and sneer. _A Romana. _Perhaps I was too harsh earlier, when I considered Capitol people the most moronic in Panem. The Romana clan is a close second.

They seem to think that by stealing the money of respectable folk, they are the heroes of the district. In reality, they annoy everyone. I don't suppose the phrase "get a job" would faze them at all, but it would be interesting to try.

The escort, whose name I don't remember because it is ridiculous, shakes Ceylon's hand. She looks confused and frightened. Then, with a smile, he moves to the male reaping bowl. The children around me stiffen, and even I feel that familiar tightening in my gut.

There is a slight pause. And then—

"Wilson Brothers!"

My name rings over the square, which is filled with the whispered relief of hundreds of children. Only one boy is not smiling quietly to himself, pleased that he survived another year.

Me.

My body trembles as I move through the crowd. They give me space as I march towards the stage. I can feel the eyes of the entire district upon me and I don't like it.

I flare my nostrils and do my best not to explode. I am not going to cry. I am not going to scream. I will not play the fool in the eyes of Panem.

I make it to the stage without any such incident. I imagine that my countenance is stony. The escort is talking again, making some sort of speech. It doesn't matter. I'm not going to listen to him.

I catch the eye of the Romana girl, Ceylon. There is a disturbed sort of horror on her face, although she's clearly trying to hide it. She blinks at me and her lip quivers, and then she looks away. I don't know what to think about my competitor. One thing is certain. I am not about to lower myself to the level of an uneducated, pagan freak. I will not be her ally.

Funny that the thought actually manages to bring me some sort of comfort. Perhaps, if all of my competitors are as ridiculous as she, I will be alright.

* * *

Waiting for my parents is a stressful experience. There is nothing to catch my eye in the boring Justice Building room. I did not bring a book to the reapings, so I have nothing to read. Perhaps I might have brought a book as a token, but it's too late now. I don't have one, and the idea that my parents will bring me a token is preposterous.

My mother is the first in the room. Her eyes are moist, but I feel as though she's crying about the loss of an heir, not the loss of a son. Who will take over the Brothers family business now? We are the proprietors of a good amount of District Eight's factories, and I have no siblings.

She gathers me into a hug as my father follows her into the room. "I'm so sorry, Wilson," she exclaims.

I'm suddenly annoyed. "Yes, I suppose it _is _an inconvenience, isn't it? Rather unfortunate, a real wrench in the works, wouldn't you say?"

She's used to the bitter sort of sarcasm that often taints my words. "You—you will try to win, won't you?"

I snort. "No, Mother. I'm just going to lie down during the Bloodbath and _relax."_

"Wilson!" she says, blinking hard. She seems less sad now, more shocked. "How can you say these things?"

"I was joking, Mother. Do you really think that little of me?"

There is an awkward silence. After a few moments, my father clears his throat. "I'm proud of you, son."

It is, if possible, the most clichéd parting phrase I have ever experienced. I am not going to grace it with a reply. I exhale noisily and look to the side instead. Another awkward silence, and then my father claps me on the shoulder.

"Do your best, son," he says. "I have faith in you."

"That's just what I needed," I grumble. "Thank you for the faith. I'm sure it will help when I'm off exsanguinating in a bush somewhere."

He blinks confusedly, and I groan. "Exsanguinating," I recite. "Or, to exsanguinate. To be drained of blood to a degree sufficient to induce death."

"Ah," he says.

By this point, I've had enough. "Pleasant visit," I say, herding them towards the door. "It was lovely to see you. I'd much prefer an _open _coffin funeral, but it might not be wise given the state my body will be in. Horribly mangled, would you say?" The door is open and I am practically shoving them through. "I wish the both of you the _best _possible lives. Whatever you do, don't feel guilty! Don't think about me at every function and wish you'd done better. Lord knows I wouldn't want that!" The door clicks shut and I lean against it, breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps I was slightly harsher than I should have been. But I was in no way close to my parents, and they were not close to me. It's better this way.

Now I will remain undistracted during the Games. And, at the moment, I value my life much more than the feelings of my parents. Understandable, I think.

_Perhaps I can do this, _I tell myself, as I sit back in the chair and wait. _Perhaps I can win. _

And if not, at least I'll be getting my open coffin funeral.

* * *

**JAYFISHY QUESTION TIME!~**

**#009: Which of these four tributes do you think is most likely to make a kill?**

**#010: Have you ever had a strange or supernatural experience? If so, what happened?**


End file.
